Spangled
by MikkiOfTheAnbu
Summary: A series of one-shots detailing the life and times of the lovely Amelia F. Jones, or to most, the United States of America. There will be love, tears, laughter, and the occasional boob joke, so come along for the ride and prepare for the awesomeness that is America. (RusFem!Ame) Chapter 20: Mother of America
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: The Day That All Men Fear**

"Being a Woman is a terribly difficult task,

since it consists principally in dealing with men," - Joseph Conrad

* * *

It was the day that every man in the world had grown to fear. The day that the tallest mountains crumbled, the mightiest seas boiled away to nothing, and every single last male in existence was in danger of losing his manhood, depending of course upon what he chose to say in the presence of a certain female nation.

Yes, it was that monthly date, the one that everyone had written expressly down in their calendars so as to be prepared.

Prepared for the rampage of the _beast. _

And it was on this day, on a balmy beautiful afternoon in July, that someone forgot to warn _someone _of the impending date of doom, and that a certain unfortunate Prussian man, who shall here remain nameless, made the terribly unwise choice to speak ill of the precarious economic state of the country of a one Ms. United States of America.

A.K.A, the _beast. _

_"_Hey there, America," Prussia said with a smirk, folding his arms and looking down upon the girl in front of him as condescendingly as possible. "I hear your economy hasn't been doing so hot lately. Maybe it's because everyone in the world has finally gotten sick of buying those pathetic excuses for products you keep turning out."

America looked up, blue eyes filled with cold malice. A vein twitched in her temple, and all around her male nations flattened themselves against the walls in fear, all the while wondering what the _hell _Prussia thought he was doing. Didn't he know what day it was?

"That's funny, Gilbert," America said lowly, _dangerously. _"That's real fucking funny. You got anything else _funny _to say to me? Or were you just planning on standing there like an idiot and breathing my air all damn day?" Her tone was laden with unspoken threats. The nations of the world all stopped what they were doing around the two to watch what was most likely about to become a very messy encounter.

Prussia frowned. "Now listen here, bitch," he said/yelled, leaning in closer to America's face. "Nothing gives you the right to speak to the awesome me in such a manner. I was only pointing out the complete fuck-wad that is your economy. Or have all those burgers you've been eating finally fattened up your brain as well?"

There was a shocked gasp from the audience, from a certain Brit in particular, and a cold wind suddenly swept the room, making everyone shiver.

America's eyes were shadowed as she calmly reached up and grasped the collar of Prussia's neatly pressed uniform. She then promptly ran her dainty knee into the silver-haired man's crotch, causing him to sputter and swear and cry all in one instant.

There was a resounding and slightly pained "Ooooooooooooooooo" from the spectators.

It was on this day that the unfortunate Prussian man found himself viciously hurled through the fifth story window of the meeting hall he and his companions had selected for their conference, all the while screaming like a bitch. For years after that moment, he would swear to all who would listen that he had seen the face of the devil that day, when in fact it had simply been the very pissed-off glare of a very powerful nation on her monthly cycle.

Glass flew everywhere, and every man in the room instantly fell to their knees in terror, some clutching their manhood, others praying to whatever deities they worshipped that they would be spared from the American's wrath.

America smoothed out her clothes and ran a hand in her hair, the sound of Prussia's bones crunching on the pavement below like music to her ears. She looked around.

"Anyone else got a problem?" She shouted at the nations of the world. In tandem, every last one of them frantically shook their heads, a few even going so far as to say "No Ma'am!"

America smirked evilly and placed a hand on her hip. "Good," she said. "I didn't feel like getting blood on my clothes today anyway."

The male nations all gulped, while in the corner of the room the female nations were all giggling like mad, even the normally stoic Belarus fighting off a few chuckles. Yes, this time of the month was always the most entertaining for them, and they hoped that it would be this way for many years to come.

Because really, nothing beat the shit-your-pants-scared look of a two-hundred-year-old man cowering below a table in fear of a young girl on her period.

Nothing at all.

**Hey Ya'll! So this is a bit of a new thing for me. A new fandom. A new set of characters. But, I hope that by running this little series of one-shots, it'll help cure me of my writer's block so I can get back to my other stories. Please leave comments telling me if this is something you think I should continue. Until next time! - Mikki**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Pancakes Taste Best at Gun-Point**

"Women and cats will do as they please,

and men and dogs should just relax and get used to the idea."

-Robert A. Heinlein

* * *

The last thing that the nation of Canada expected at four in the morning was to wake up and see his little sister hovering over him with a gun pointed at his face. Unfortunately for him, upon opening his eyes, that is exactly what he saw before him.

America towered over him as he lay in his bed, her hair slightly disheveled from sleep and her glasses askew on her nose. She wore nothing but a long silky nightgown with pictures of bacon on it, and clutched in her hand, aimed directly into the space between Canada's eyes, was a shiny silver revolver.

Canada sighed deeply. He was not as surprised by this as he should have been.

"America," he began tiredly, running a hand down his slightly stubbly face. "What are you doing?"

America gazed down at her brother with a blank expression. She blinked, and Canada found himself a tiny bit pissed off at the alertness in her blue eyes.

"I want pancakes." She said simply. Canada groaned.

"And...?" He said.

America looked at him like he was stupid.

"I want pancakes." She said again, this time more slowly. She waved the gun from side to side in her brother's face. "Make me some pancakes."

Canada fixed the girl with a deadpan stare. "... Are you kidding me?" He said in slight disbelief.

America leaned forward and pressed the tip of the gun up against his nose. "Does it look like I'm kidding?" She said, a little too calmly.

Canada blinked, and then heaved yet another great sigh that was more of a scream than an exhale. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sat up. "Oh my God." He said.

"He has nothing to do with this." Said America stoically.

"You cannot be serious right now."

"Oh but I am. Make me some pancakes."

"No."

"Make me some pancakes and I won't have to shoot you in the head."

"No, America."

"I'm going to count to three."

"America, I swear to God-"

"One."

"How did you even get in here anyway? I have, like, twenty guards stationed outside!"

"Not anymore you don't. Two."

"Amelia F. Jones, it is four in the _fucking _morning and I have better things to do with my time than make you some _goddamn-"_

_*click* _

"Three. I will not hesitate to kill you, Matt, if you refuse to meet my demands. I've done worse things for your pancakes."

Canada looked up and met his sister's gaze. Sure enough, there was the tiny hint of bloodlust shining in her eyes that warned him of a fate far worse than death should he continue to not make America pancakes. At last the nation shook his head. He groaned, the groan of a man condemned to cater to his trigger-happy sister's whims whenever she felt like bugging the crap out of him, and swung his legs over the side of his bed.

"Fine, America." He said. "I'll make you some goddamn pancakes. But this is the last time, you hear me?"

This was not going to be the last time.

Immediately, America's face split into a shit-eating grin. She squealed in delight and threw her arms around her half-conscious twin, causing him to lose his balance and slam his toe against his night-stand.

"Thank you thank you thank you!" She cried, crushing him with her monster strength. "I love you, Mattie, you're the greatest big brother in the whole wide world!"

"Yeah, yeah," Matthew wheezed. "Now get the hell off me, or do you not want any of my delicious deliciousness?"

America let him go in an instant, and a second later took off like a rocket for the staircase leading down into the kitchen. There was a resounding crash and an anguished cry of "My leg!" that probably came from one of the guards she's taken down on her late-night (or was it early morning?) rampage.

Canada couldn't help the chuckle that escaped from his lips, and as he made his way down to the kitchen (ignoring as he went the fifteen or so lifeless bodies sprawled across his hallway), he felt the familiar combination of irritation and warm affection that always came from dealing with America.

He ended up making her over two-hundred pancakes, and, unsurprisingly, she finished them all in just under three hours.

America sighed contentedly and rubbed her full belly. "Wow, Mattie, those were great!"

"I know," Matthew said, smirking. "Who do you think made them?"

America yawned loudly and started to rub her eyes tiredly. Canada smiled and offered her a hand. "C'mon," he said. "You can share my room."

America smiled and held onto her brother's hand, allowing herself to be scooped up into a piggyback and carried up the stairs to Canada's room. She yawned again and leaned her head into her brother's shoulder.

"Love ya, Mattie," she said sleepily, letting her eyes droop shut.

Canada laid her down gently on the mattress and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Love you too, Amelia," he said fondly.

And with that, the two siblings fell into a deep sleep, wrapped up in the warmth of each other's arms.

Little did they know that they were soon to be roused by a horde of angry secret service men and security guards, each wondering how the hell a 19 year-old girl was able to effortlessly kick their asses and send them all into mini-comas.

But that is a story for another day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Even Small Children Should Know How to Make Out With People**

"A child's kiss is magic. Why else would they be so stingy with them?" - Harvey Fierstein

* * *

"Alright, mon petites!" France exclaimed with a clap of his hands. "Today, your darling Papa is going to teach you something very special!"

The two small colonies sitting before him blinked.

They had learned from past encounters with the over-enthusiastic french man that whenever he wanted to teach/show them something, it usually ended with Britain getting angry/mortified and punching him in the balls. Hard.

On the table in front of them was a small silver bowl filled with cherries, and America and Canada watched silently as France daintily withdrew one and pulled off its stem. He winked at the children, and then proceeded to place the tiny stem in between his lips and draw it into his mouth with his tongue.

"Now, watch carefully you two," France said, smirking at the slightly confused look the children had on their faces. Slowly, he began to roll his tongue about in his mouth, making his pink cheeks bulge and stretch in a slightly over-exaggerated fashion. Young Canada and America had no idea what the hell their "Papa" was doing, and could only sit and watch as the movement in his mouth became quicker and more violent, until he appeared to be fighting some sort of tongue-based battle in his mouth.

After a few more seconds, however, France gave the widest smile he could muster with closed lips, and reached up to take out what was surely a crushed cherry stem. Only it wasn't.

The two colonies, who up until then had been slightly afraid for the mental health of their caretaker, gazed up in awe at the perfect knot that was now seated in the center of the stem. France grinned at their expressions and held out his work for them to see more closely.

"That was so cool, Papa!" America exclaimed, plucking the stem out the Frenchman's hand and holding it up to her face. "How's you do that? Can you teach me?"

"Ohonhonhon! But of course I can, dear Amerique!" France laughed. "In fact, it is imperative that the two of you learn how to do this little trick as soon as possible!"

Canada tilted his head to the side. "And why's that, Papa?" He said in his normal hushed voice.

"Ohononhon, why indeed," France laughed, a little more darkly than before. Had a certain Brit been there at the time he would have taken the opportunity to grab his children and run.

The Frenchman placed a slight hand on Canada's shoulder and then leaned in to whisper into the boy's ear. "By being able to tie the cherry stem into a petite knot with your tongue, you automatically transform into what is known as a 'good kisser,' a real _Fabuleux maître de la langue." _

America stopped admiring the stem to stare at France. "What does 'good kisser' mean?" She asked innocently.

France laughed perversely. "Well, mon cher, it means that you are able to give the optimum amount of... _le plaisir _to whomever it is you wish."

Canada, who could understand the freaky French his caretaker was spewing, paled. Unlike his sister, there were many aspects of the world of "adult love", as Britain called it, that he, despite being a small child, understood all too well.

Unfortunately.

America was still confused. "Le play what now?" She said. The little girl thought for a moment, and then shook her head and smiled. "Never mind that, can you still teach me how to do the tongue thing?"

France clapped his hands together in delight and nodded profusely. "Of course, of course! Now here, take a stem and you try!"

America picked off her own cherry stem and plopped it into her mouth. She made a huge motion of thrashing her small tongue about in her mouth. Canada, not wanting to be left out despite his growing horror, followed suit. Soon the both of them were sitting in France's kitchen trying desperately to tie the stems into knots with their tongues, much to France's delight.

After a good ten minutes, however, Canada found that no matter what he did, he was unable to tie the knot. This made him more disappointed than it should have.

"I'm sorry, Papa," he said, his little lip puffed out in a pout. "I can't do it. It's too hard."

France looked crestfallen. "Oh non! I am sure you can do it! It just takes a tiny bit of... er... practice! That's it, practice!" Canada looked unconvinced.

Meanwhile, America was still chewing away at her stem, tiny grunts of effort escaping from her every now and then. She struggled like that for another five minutes, before finally, to everyone's surprise but her own, she gave a triumphant cry and pulled from her mouth a tiny, perfectly knotted cherry stem.

France was ecstatic. He threw his arms into the air and reached over the table to scoop the tiny American into a big proud hug. "Oh, mon petite Amerique! I am so very proud of you! You managed to do it all by yourself, and on your first try no less!" France then held the now giggling girl out at arms length. He paused, looked her over, and then nodded. "The French is strong in this one." He said simply.

Canada placed his small face into his palms and shook his head. He didn't know what was more disturbing; the fact that his flamboyant French caretaker was encouraging learning this sort of thing or the fact that his little sister had actually been able to _do _it. He sighed. Britain would most definitely_ not_ be pleased when he returned home.

America grinned at the praise being tossed her way. Although she denied it, she absolutely adored being the center of attention, and she basked in the slightly unhealthily joy of her flailing Papa.

"Hey, Papa?" America asked suddenly. "Does that le play stuff make people happy?"

France's smile took on a perverted (even more so than usual) quality. "Oh yes, cher," he chuckled. "_Le plaisir _makes people very, _very _happy."

America turned thoughtful for a second, and then nodded to herself. She twirled her knotted stem in her hands and licked her cherry-tinted lips, happy that she had learned something new.

**Later, when Britain got home...**

"Hey, Daddy! Look what I can do!"

"What is it, poppet? Did you learn to... Oh my sweet Jesus. FRANCE!"

"Ohonhonhonhonhon! Now now, Angleterre, what are you so mad about? I simply taught the little ones something useful!"

"USEFUL!? You call defiling my baby's innocence and forcing her to do something so... SO...!"

"Hey Daddy! I'm going to give you _le plaisir_!"

"... France, you have exactly three seconds to haul ass before I personally cut your bollocks off."

And the Frenchman ran.

**Hey guys! To all of you who are reading these little stories, I hope you are enjoying them! Please leave comments telling me what you think or any ideas you might have and I'll be sure to read them! Until next time! - Mikki **


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Wisdom Means Knowing When To Throw A Harpoon At Something**

"No doubt exists that all women are crazy; it's only a question of degree." - W.C Fields

* * *

"Where the bloody hell is that girl? She's already a half hour late!" Britain huffed, crossing his arms and pacing back and forth across the meeting room floor.

"Patience, Angleterre," France soothed as he reclined in his chair. "I am sure that Amerique is on her way right as we speak. She was probably just getting one of her horrid fast foods and lost track of the time."

"She'd better be," Britain growled. "I swear, I am going to have to give her a serious talking to about punctuality! This is the third meeting in a row she's been tardy to!"

France chuckled lightly at the Brit's antics. He always loved to see the nation so worked up. It made him look so cute, and so very fun to tease! The Frenchman ran a delicate hand through his long blond hair and turned to look at Canada, who was sitting beside him. The boy had a slightly nervous look on his face and every so often he shifted slightly in his seat.

France raised an eyebrow. "What is it, Mathieu? Something on your mind?"

Canada looked up, startled that he was being noticed. "Huh? Oh, no, Francis! I-I was just thinking about something that happened this morning is all. It's nothing serious!"

"Oh, come now, cher, you can tell your Papa!" France cooed, snaking an arm around his former colony's shoulders and pulling him closer. "Whatever is bothering you bothers me as well! Surely you know this!" France gave his best sexy-pouty face and Canada sighed.

"Well," he began, looking up to make sure none of the other nations (who were busy screaming and beating the crap out of each other) were listening in. "I got a really weird phone call from America this morning. She was all riled up and yelling something about how her house got broken into last night. A-and how she was going on an 'epic quest' to find out who the culprit was."

France frowned. "That's it?" He said, a little disappointed. "America hunting down criminals is nothing new. Why is this worrisome?"

"Because," said Canada, playing with his hands. "In the background I heard some really weird noises. Like, squealing and stuff. Then she screamed about someone digging up her flower beds and hung up on me!"

Britain, who had been secretly listening to the conversation, stopped pacing and turned to face the two men. "Digging up her flower beds?" He said, raising an enormous eyebrow. "The bloody hell does that mean?"

This was when France began to laugh. The _France _laugh. And when France did the France laugh, it was never a good sign.

Never.

"You tosser, what are you on about?" Britain said, both scared and confused.

"Don't you see?" France said with a wide and incredibly devilish smile. Canada and Britain shook their heads. France sighed dramatically, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "'Flower beds' is a key word for something." He said.

"Key word for what?" Asked Canada, not liking _at all _where this was going.

France smirked and motioned for the younger nation to lean in closer. He then proceeded to whisper something into the boy's ear, and that something caused him to both scream like he was being murdered and blush furiously in the same instant.

"WH-WH-WHAT!?" He exclaimed, falling into his chair and crashing fabulously onto the floor. "FRANCE! You-you can't seriously think that AMELIA-"

"What!?" Cried Britain, immediately frowning at the negative mention of his (not so) little girl. "What about Amelia!?"

"Ohonhonhonhonhon! Mon innocent Angleterre, don't you see?" France said, laughing more loudly. "Flower beds? Squealing noises in the background? Petite Amerique being late all the time? It's all obviously due to the fact that she's having... _relations _with someone at her home. From the sound of things, very, honhonhonhon... LOUD relations indeed."

Britain blinked.

He thought for a second.

And then he drew his gun out from within his shirt.

He cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." He said, deathly calm. "But it seems I have something (some_one) _I need to take care of." He turned to leave the room, but just before he could, the two heavy doors burst open, and in stalked a very... _haggard _looking United States of America.

By, haggard, I mean covered in dark red blood. From head to toe.

Oh, and clutching a gigantic bloody harpoon in one hand as well.

The meeting room went deathly silent. All eyes were fixated on the sight before them.

America breathed heavily into the now quiet atmosphere, and her eyes shown with a manic glare of triumph that sent fear trickling down the spines of everyone in the room. Except for a certain Russian man that found himself blushing heavily at how pretty America looked covered in blood.

The girl took a few steps into the room and wiped her grimy cheek with the back of her hand. _  
_

Then she smirked.

"Hey, guys, sorry I'm late!" She said cheerily to the shocked nations of the world. "I had a little business to take care of back home. But it's all finished now so here I am!" She walked towards the table and took a seat, leaning her _bloody harpoon _up against the side. No one spoke, and America tilted her head to the side curiously. "What's the matter, guys? You all look like you just pooped your pants."

A hundred mouths dropped open at once, but before any of them could thoroughly freak the fuck out, Britain beat them all to it.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU MEAN 'WHAT"S THE MATTER!?'" He exploded, his eyes wide and a tiny bit of foam forming at the corner of his mouth. "You waltz in here carrying a WHALING HARPOON soaked in GOD KNOWS WHOSE BLOOD, and you expect us to NOT ASK QUESTIONS!?"

America stared down at her weapon as though she was seeing it for the first time.

"Oh, this," she said simply, then smiled widely. "Well, some wild pigs broke into my house last night at busted a whole bunch of my stuff up! They even ruined my flower beds that I worked so hard to grow, can you believe that? Anyway, I was just gonna shoot 'em all and be done with it, but then I thought, 'Hey! I haven't used the harpoon to kill anything in awhile! I'll use that!' And well, one thing led to another and here I am!" America threw her head back and laughed her obnoxious laugh.

The rest of the world remained silent in both awe and terror of what they had just heard.

France spoke first this time.

"Awwwwww," he said, sticking out his lower lip in a deep pout. "You mean you WEREN'T having mind blowing sex while the rest of us toiled at this awful meeting?"

America shook her head. "Nope!" She said cheerily. "No sex. Just a lot of harpoony-stabby stuff. Sorry to disappoint."

Canada and Britain, despite their shock, let out simultaneous breaths of relief. At the far end of the room, Russia was still blushing hotly, even more so with the knowledge that America had actually killed something with her actions. He sighed dreamily and leaned his head cheek into his palm, his cold heart beating just a little bit faster.

America laughed again, and moved that they all continue the meeting (which meant that everyone could forget what they had just seen and go back to fighting stupidly with one another). Everyone was more than happy to do this, and for the rest of the meeting they all tried their best to ignore the salty tang of blood than hung in the air, and the still crazed grin of a certain American across the way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Stairs, Russia, Tongue, And The Threat Of Castration**

"I believe that if life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade... And try to find somebody whose life has given them vodka and have a party." - Ron White

* * *

It happened on a Tuesday morning.

9:05 on the eighth of January, at a world conference in Moscow, Russia.

Russia himself was sitting innocently across the conference table with his large gloved hands folded in his lap. On his face was his usual childish smile, and beside him sat three terrified Baltics and a crazed Belarusian with a thing for people related to her. He was listening casually to the proceedings, as this was one of those rare meetings where something actually got _done, _and as he listened he found that his chilling gaze began to wander. _  
_

The whole conference was turning out to be rather boring, due to the lack of bloodletting and the usual crucifixion, and Russia, in his growing boredom, decided that it would be fun to see how many of his "comrades" he could terrify by looking at them for an extended period of time without blinking.

His record was eighty-two nations in a row.

Russia's eyes then traveled around the table, stopping every so often to scrutinize/traumatize a particularly weak looking nation, and eventually, they stopped on the lovely visage of the cheerful blond American sitting directly across from him on the other side of the room. He'd only gotten up to forty-four scared shitless nations.

Upon seeing her, with her baggy leather bomber jacket and her stubborn blond cowlick, Russia's normally disturbing smile took on a much softer quality, and he sighed dreamily as he watched the girl proudly raise her arm, sniff, and make a satisfied face.

Classy.

Lately, it seemed as though America and Russia had been getting along quite well, both personally and politically, with the bubbly blond talking to the tall Slav on a regular, and not at all irritating, basis. America had even gone so far as to stop calling Russia an "evil-ass commie manipulator," and had taken to using his human name, Ivan.

This made Ivan very happy.

He didn't know why, but being around the girl made him feel very... happy. (Happy, warm, stupendous, elated, marvelous, loving, cuddly, bloodthirsty, gassy... wait, what?) And that was not something that Ivan felt all that often.

America's eyes flickered up from where she was staring intensely at the paperwork in front of her (as though she could make it die despite not being alive) and moved to meet Russia's steady gaze.

The two superpowers stared at each other for a moment, and then America smiled her million-dollar smile and gave Russia a friendly middle finger.

Russia giggled quietly to himself, causing all those around him to break into a cold sweat, and he quickly scribbled a lovely little picture of the American bursting into flames on his notes and held it up for her to see.

She laughed silently into her hand.

It was the same game they always played with each other; who could make the most culturally offensive gesture or sign before the meeting was over. They had been playing it since before the Cold War (wherein the signs and gestures became large guns and passing death-threats), and it never failed to lift each of their spirits if either one of them was having a bad day.

America wrote the word "Russia" on a piece of paper and poked holes in it with her pen.

Russia motioned like he was stuffing his face and afterwards mimed being extremely fat.

America lit the Russia paper on fire with her lighter.

Russia drew a picture of a hot-air balloon with "America" written on the basket.

It just went on and on.

The game continued until the meeting was finally adjourned by a pissed-off looking German with an unconscious Italian man slung over his shoulder.

Russia, along with the rest of the world, let out an enormous sigh. He stood up and stretched his large limbs and watched as America did the same across the way. He saw her brother, Maple-something, walk up to her and start talking to her, followed shortly by Britain and France who both walked with a limp. This was likely because they'd been silently kicking each other under the table the entire time.

America smiled at something Maple said, and together they exited the room, gimpy Europeans trailing after them. Russia waved goodbye even though he knew she couldn't see him.

As soon as she was out of sight, his smile fell, replaced by a melancholy look akin to sadness. He tromped over to where she had been sitting just a few minutes prior (leaving Belarus to terrorize the Baltics) and calmly felt the still-warm spot on her chair.

_Ah, _he thought. _My little Amerika's fat behind was here once. _

It was creepy, but for Russia, a very caring gesture.

He looked at all the drawings of him dying horribly on the table and his smile returned. But then, something caught his eye. Underneath all of the pictures of him being suffocated by snakes, him being torn apart by wolves, and him being plunged head-first into the fires of hell, was a very official-looking document with America's personal seal of approval stamped on the front.

Russia raised an eyebrow and picked the paper up. How unusual of America to leave such a valuable thing behind.

For a moment, he considered reading what the document said, but then reconsidered when he remembered that the Cold War was, in fact, over, and that there was no longer a crippling need for him to know every single miniscule detail about America and her idiotic country.

Instead, he tucked it into his long grey overcoat, and decided that he would return it to her himself.

He smiled when he thought of how happy she would be once he did this. She might even hug him, the mere thought sending the Russian's normally frozen heart into a flurry. He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door, off to discover where the American had gone.

He hadn't been looking for three seconds, before Amelia's loud voice could be heard like a siren call echoing up the staircase that lead into the meeting room.

"Sorry, Matt! I just gotta grab something real quick and then we can split!" She yelled down to her brother, who Russia saw was waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs.

Russia smiled as the girl bounded up the stairs like a freight train and into his view. "Privyet, Amerika! I was just coming to find you! You and your little brain forgot-" But before he could finish, something short and blond crashed into his mid-section, causing him to fall forward from his place at the top of the staircase.

He fell with an unceremonious thump down half of the first flight, and rolled violently the rest of the way. He continued to do this, swearing like a sailor, until he, and the thing that had taken him down, at last reached the marble floors of the bottom.

The thing was, in fact, America, who now lay crushed beneath 200 pounds of sexy Russian man.

And whose lips and said sexy Russian man's were now locked onto each other in a most passionate and intimate way.

Russia blinked.

America blinked.

Canada, France, and Britain, who had just witnessed the whole thing, blinked.

Inside their joint mouthes, there was tongue.

Wet, sensual, American and Russian tongue.

All up in there.

And then there was screaming.

But it wasn't a Russian or American scream. Oh no.

It was the cry of a British man watching his precious daughter being defiled by a guy whose best friend floats at the bottom of a glass.

(Elton John reference)

After a good thirty seconds of continuos lip-locking, America at last broke the kiss. Her eyes were slightly wide, but she wasn't nearly as shocked or disgusted as one might think she would be after such an experience.

"Huh," she said, blinking again. "Well, that happened. It's weird. I thought you'd taste more like vodka than you actually do."

Before Russia even had time to blush at the almost-compliment, a harsh kick was dealt to his ribcage, sending him flying off of America's warm body.

He hissed in pain and immediately looked up, expecting to see a livid Brit with a gelding knife at the ready.

Instead, he got a livid Canadian.

With a gelding knife at the ready.

In that moment, Russia chose to stupidly wonder where the hell the docile nation had stashed a knife of that size, instead of getting the fuck out of dodge. He couldn't feel much other than the pain in his side or the still-tingly feeling of America's lips on his own.

Canada growled, an inhuman growl.

"Five seconds." He said. "Go. Now."

Russia looked up stupidly and saw the face of death as exemplified by the hellish glint of light off of the Canadian's glasses. He ran like a bat out of hell.

He was followed by not only Britain and Canada, but by a strangely angry French man as well. America waved, still on the floor.

"By, Ivan!" She called happily, a crumpled paper clenched in one of her hands. "See you tomorrow." She lowered her voice and let a small blush overtake her cheeks.

"And thanks for the kiss."

**And there we have it! I've been pretty good about updating regularly, haven't I? Well, to all y'all reading this, please note that reviews are the sole purpose of my existence and that they make me want to continue writing. Please. Until next time! - Mikki**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: A Raptor Called Jesus**

"Almost all of my graduate students say that they got interested in dinosaurs because of 'Jurassic Park.'" - Jack Horner

* * *

Anyone who knew America knew that she was insane. But not the shit-house crazy kind of insane, oh no. She was more of the evil-genius-I'm-going-to-invent-the-strain-that-causes-zombies kind of... _insane. _And this meant, because she was a fucking scientific _jesus_, that she possessed both the knowledge and the facilities to create... well monsters.

And pizza plants.

Because she could.

It just so happens that on this day she decided that she was going to dabble in some (illegal) cloning experiments. This was okay because her secret lab was hidden in George Washington's nose at Mount Rushmore, so neither her boss nor her family could find her.

America stood from her crouched position on the sterile floor of her secret lab. On her face was a crazed smile, and she gazed down upon her latest creation with utmost glee and satisfaction. She couldn't wait to show the other nations. She threw back her head and laughed maniacally, the lightening from outside (because when you do illegal genetic experimentation there must always be lightning) illuminating the room with a sinister CLASH and a BANG.

The tiny creature in the make-shift nest before her growled. He stared back at his "mommy" with glowing yellow eyes and gently pushed himself out of the last of his enormous shell.

America turned to the table behind her and picked up a raw piece of meat. She tossed it to the creature, who pounced into the air and caught it between his powerful jaws, and cooed at how "adorable" he was as he viciously ripped the slab apart.

"OMG you are just SOOOOOOOOOOOO cute!" She cried, kneeling down once more to pet her monster's scaly head. "I can't wait to show you to Mattie! He's totes gonna flip his shit! But wait, before all that you need a dope-ass name. I can't just keep calling you 'grandaddy-ultra-lord' the rest of your life. No love, man. Hmmmmm..." America stroked her chin, not for the first time pining away for an invisible Gandalf beard. She thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers. "I got it! Jesus! From this day forward, your name shell henceforth be Raptor Jesus!"

The baby velociraptor blinked for a moment, and then took the opportunity to jump up and clamp his jaws around America's leg.

She thought it was the most adorable thing she had ever seen.

* * *

Canada thought of all the things he would rather be doing right now.

Cooking pancakes and slathering them with maple syrup.

Quietly observing the beauty of nature from the bench in his backyard.

Getting a bone-marrow transplant.

Instead, he was standing in front of his house, staring deadpan at his sister who sat on mounted back of a huge, evil-looking, scaly green, long toothed dinosaur, smiling like an idiot.

Canada couldn't even begin to describe the concern that was welling up from within him.

"Hey, Mattie!" America said with a friendly wave. "Just came by to give you a peak at my new ride! Pretty sweet, huh?" She shifted her grip on the reins in her gloved hand and kicked the raptor forward with her foot. Surprisingly, it complied without biting her face off.

"Amelia...?" Canada said. "What... I don't even... just, what the hell?"

"This is my dinosaur." She said.

"I can see that. Why do you have one?"

"I did a thing."

"A thing?"

"A thing."

"You wanna tell me about the thing?"

"... No, cause you'll yell at me."

Canada face-palmed and stepped off his porch. "You're damn right I'm gonna yell at you! You don't just magically acquire a fucking dinosaur and then saddle him up and ride him to somebody's house!"

America pouted. "But Mattie! He's sooooooo cooooool! I even taught him a trick! Watch!" America leaned forward so that she was whispering into what Canada presumed was the raptor's ear.

Five seconds later, the monster let out a terrifying screech and pouched onto Canada's car, proceeding to bite and claw it as though it were prey and it was the predator. Canada screamed and gripped his hair in shock, fear, and anger, the raptor destroying his precious mini-van with no remorse (shut up, it's a good car). America, still on the thing's scaly back, laughed loudly into the night.

"See? Isn't this awesome?"

**Sorry, it's late, but at least I got a chapter out! Ya'll can expect another one shortly, to make up for the miss. Until then! - Mikki**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: What To Say To The President Of The United States (part 1)**

"My fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." - John F. Kennedy

* * *

America remembers every first thing she said to each of her presidents. Every first look, every first touch, every first reaction to learning the greatest secret of the nation, her.

In perfect clarity, she can remember the place, the time, the date, what everyone was wearing, and what she had had for breakfast that morning.

She often likes to reminisce about all the men she knew, all the people who helped to make her, _her. _Sometimes it makes her sad to know that they're gone, but usually, it only forms a small, happy smile on her lips. She closes her eyes, and lets the memories take her.

***1***

The man stared at the young girl before him, blond hair in disarray, petticoats torn, and a still-smoking pistol clutched in her hand steady hand.

He blinked, not sure of what he was seeing. She had appeared out of nowhere, like a beautiful, bloody phantom.

Around them, mortars exploded, and gunshots rang through the air, hitting trees, flesh, anything they could find. On the open field was a mass of red and blue, fighting, killing, dying. And there was blood, so, _so _much blood. The girl seemed unfazed, angry even. The man's, who was a general, first reaction was to scream at the girl, to yell at her to get the hell out of here, that there was a bloody _war _going on.

But the sight of her, her eyes blazing with such fury and determination... it just looked so very _right _that George found himself unable to say anything other than, "What's your name, girl?"

And she replied, voice strong and clear over the battle.

"America."

And in his heart, his war-hardened, soldier heart, George Washington knew it was true.

***2***

All around the office, there was applause, and the man in the center of the room found himself puffing up slightly at the recognition. He was now officially the second president of the United States of America.

People came up to congratulate him, shaking his hand and patting him on the back, and he felt a great sense of pride well up from within him.

Eventually, the people all left, one by one filing out of the room (his new office) until he was at last left alone. John let out a great sigh. He turned and went to his desk, taking a seat in the large leather chair that now belonged to the President of the United States. He reclined in it and let his eyes fall shut, stretching his legs out under the desk as he did so.

He was not expecting to kick something fleshy and make it yelp in surprise.

"What the-?" He sputtered, craning his head down to look under his desk.

"Ouch, man," said the girl sitting there, rubbing her head. "Give a girl a little warning, would ya?"

John stared, wondering why the hell there was a teenage-looking girl crouching beneath his desk. She smiled and held up a hand in greeting.

"Hello, sir!" She said cheerfully. She held out her hand for him to shake. "I'm the United States of America. Pleased to make your acquaintance!"

John didn't know how to respond to that. So he just said. "Please get out of my office. Now."

The girl pouted.

"Awwwww, c'mon! George believed me right away!"

"Please get out of my office."

"No."

"Leave."

"Make me."

"I don't know who you are, but I can tell you right now that I have no qualms with forcing you to leave."

"But I told you already, I'm America!"

John Adams rubbed his temples. Just what had he gotten himself into?

***3***

Thomas was not having a good day.

He stomped his way through the halls of the White House as loudly as possible, making sure that everyone knew of his irritation. That damn Hamilton and his godforsaken Federalism! If he heard one more thing about decreasing States' rights he was going to murder somebody.

Viciously. With a rake.

Thomas growled and ran a hand through his untidy hair. He needed to let off some steam before he returned to his cabinet. It had only been two months since he'd taken office and already he was beginning to go insane. Everything had seemed so much easier during the Revolution, when there was a clear enemy to beat the holy hell out of and not a bunch of twisted politicians scheming their way into the new government.

Thomas sighed as he arrived at his room.

Just as he was reaching for the door-handle, however, he heard a sound from within the room. A very familiar sound, one that he had been using to calm himself with ever since he was very small. It was the soft lilt of a violin.

Confusion entered the President's mind, and then anger, as he realized that there was someone in _his _room playing _his _violin. He threw open the door, fully prepared to scream at whoever was playing, but stopped everything when he received an earful of perhaps the most beautiful music he had ever heard.

Standing in front of the window overlooking the grounds, the dying rays of a brilliant orange sunset illuminating her hair, was a girl. She looked to be around seventeen in age, and in her thin yet strong-looking arms was Thomas's violin, producing such a gorgeous sound that not even the most skilled of musicians were capable of. The girl had her back to the President, and her fingers flew across the neck of the instrument with the grace of a dancer. She didn't seem to notice his presence at all.

The piece she played was sad, yet hopeful, and it filled Thomas with a glorious melancholy he couldn't put into words. He stood there in the fading light, watching the girl play, until at last she finished and lifted the violin from her shoulder.

She didn't turn around, and her shoulder-length hair glistened like the stars beginning to show on the horizon. She heaved a great sigh, and set about placing the violin back in its case on the desk beside her.

Thomas began to feel awkward just staring at her, and so he cleared his throat.

The girl squeaked and turned around so quickly the man was afraid she'd hurt her neck.

Her face was a mixture of fear, shame, and strangely, hunger, which made Thomas raise his eyebrow. He cleared his throat again. "Excuse me," he said calmly. "I didn't mean to startle you. You were just playing so beautifully that I didn't want to disturb you."

Recognition and something else, excitement perhaps, dawned on the girl's face, and her mouth split in a wide grin the filled the evening air with sunshine.

"Hey! You're T.J, right?" She exclaimed, striding forward so that she and the president were only a few feet apart.

T.J?

She didn't wait for an answer, and instead grasped Thomas's hand more firmly than any man had before. "This is great! I was just coming to meet you! My name's Amelia, but you can call me America!"

Thomas stared at her.

"Huh?" Was all he was able to say.

"America, I'm America!" She said, crushing his hand in her monster grip.

"Are you really?" Thomas said faintly.

"Yes sir, I am! I look forward to working with you for the next however many years!"

"... Okay." The President said, slightly dumbfounded.

"America" grinned. Thomas Jefferson had lost all feeling in his hand.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Things That Make You Appreciate Your Emergency Escape Whale**

"Many people cycle or swim to keep trim. But if swimming is so good for the figure, how do you explain whales?" - Charles Saatchi

* * *

If there was one thing that pissed the nations of the world off, it was America's obsession with randomly doing yoga in the middle of meetings.

They didn't know what was up with her.

Someone would be giving a speech about something mildly important to the world's whatever, and right in the middle, the girl would get up, throw her chair to the floor, and start doing downward dog like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It drove everyone insane.

And maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if she didn't make really loud sex-like noises (that France greatly appreciated) while she did it.

"And that is why corn farmers should-"

"ARRGGGGGGGGAAAH!"

"- attempt to keep their gross output of crops-"

"HOOOOOOOAAAAAAA!"

"- underneath eighty percent-"

_crack. "_Ssssssssssssss... Oh fuck yeah."

"AMERICA!" Screamed Austria, who was delivering the very long and very vital speech. "Would you please cease your indecent leg-movement this instant! It is VERY distracting!"

The other nations joined the miffed musician in glaring at the American, who at the moment was doing something that resembled the splits, but on her head.

America blinked, and then smiled, not in the least embarrassed. She swung her legs down and landed daintily on her feet, as graceful as a swan if swans sounded like cheap Taiwanese hookers.

"Sure, dude!" She said happily, sitting back in her chair. "But I warn you, my back gets pretty tight, and when my back gets tight I get cranky, and when I get cranky I crave froyo, but we're in Italy so froyo is a no-go, so the best I can do is gelato, but that shit's hella expensive so I gotta beg my boss for money, and then _he _gets cranky which makes _me _cranky and then-!"

"WE GET IT!" Screamed the nations of the world in unison.

America stuck out her lower lip and pouted, crossing her arms and sinking low into her chair. She detested these types of meetings, where positive contributions were made to the world's infrastructure and economy, countries got along peacefully with each other without the constant threat of war breaking loose, and there was _no goddamn froyo. _

It was enough to drive a girl insane with how boring it was.

America let out a long, melodramatic sigh, and let her forehead fall to the table with a resounding thump. She tapped her nails against the wood in rhythm to the ticking of the clock on the wall, trying (and failing) to listen to Autria's boring-ass speech, and then the next one, and the next one, and the _next one. _

God, she needed to stretch.

_Maybe, _she thought, _if I do it inconspicuously, they won't notice. _America stretched her legs out as far as they would go underneath the table, and then proceeded to do the same thing with her arms. She suppressed the (slightly sexual) groan that fought its way up from her throat, and reached as far and as quietly as she could. She didn't need another lecture from Britain on "proper conference behavior."

The stretching felt good. Really, good. And before America could stop it, a hideously loud, toe-curling, hair-raising, seal-slapping grunt of satisfaction ripped forth from her lips, shocking the rest of the room into silence.

Well, all except for Italy, who screamed in fear and jumped onto Germany's face, whose hand whipped out to keep his balance and ended up sending his hot coffee flying, which splashed into the eyes of Prussia, who screeched "My awesome eyes!" and blindly flailed his way into Ukraine's cleavage, who yelp and shoved him into the lap of France, who proceeded to try and grope him, only to be slapped upside the head by Britain, who on his way to slap France slapped Russia as well, who smiled like Satan and punched the brit into Australia, who lost his hold on the boomerang in his hand, which went flying and ended up smacking Denmark in the face, who lost his balance and fell into Sweden, who backhanded the dane into China, who squealed like a woman and leaped into Japan, who kicked the back of Korea's chair as he fell, who jumped excitedly on to the table, which caused the table, now unequally balanced by the growing pile of nation-bodies, to flip on its side, flinging the nations sitting close to it on the opposite end high up into the air, only to have them come crashing down in a heap on the other side, resulting in the mass pile up of flesh, designer clothing, pasta ( because they were in Italy), and very, VERY, pissed-off nations.

The table fell with a crash to the side.

The dust cleared, revealing the carnage.

America, the sole survivor, stood at the opposite end of the room. There was a chorus of pained groans, and then a million blood-red stares in her direction. She laughed nervously.

"Ummm... oops?" Was all she could think to say.

Across from her, the nations disentangled themselves from one another. They stood up. Their eyes were like those of fiery demons, wanting so badly to pounce on the blond that it was palpable. America stared. They stared.

And then they charged.

"AMERICA!"

It was like that scene from the Lion King, where Simba can only sit and watch helplessly from the bottom of the gorge as thousands of stampeding wildebeest thunder towards him in a deadly herd.

Only this was with nations.

And America could run faster than them.

Oh, and run she did. She ran as fast as her warm legs could carry her, trying to block out the cascade of angry voices in a hundred different languages that trailed behind her.

She ran out of the building and down the road towards the nearby beach, which now that she thought about it was an incredibly lucky happenstance.

She reached into her bra (because as all women know, the safest place to keep _anything _is on your bra) and withdrew a small silver whistle. She blew on the whistle like the shrill sound would summon the angels down from heaven to smite the great negativity behind her.

Which it might as well have.

From the water, there came a bellowing cry, and the waves parted along the sand to reveal a gigantic blue whale, with what appeared to be a happy smile on his blubbery blue face.

America grinned and launched herself onto the beach.

"Ameriwhale!" She cried happily, and quickly leapt from the hot sand onto the whale's large back. She hugged her mammalian friend and rubbed her cheek into his blubber. "You came! I knew you would! You're my hero, buddy!"

Meanwhile, back on the road, the stampede of nations had come to a screeching halt, completely and utterly flabbergasted at the sight they saw before them.

America, on the back of a whale, escaping to the open sea.

It just didn't seem possible.

America straddled the back of the whale and threw her head back to laugh mightily at their stunned expressions.

"Hahaha! Ameriwhale strikes again! Sorry, guys, but there'll be no lynching today! I've got my own way home!" America kicked the side of the whale as though it were a horse, which somehow made it turn perfectly and set about swimming into the setting sun.

America, with her back now turned towards the mob, displayed two proud middle fingers, and yelled "Suck It!" for all to hear.

The nations' mouths hung open in shock, and all that could be heard was the blond's boisterous laughter as she and her whale disappeared into the brilliant Italian sunset.

**Alrighty then! Here's another chapter for your reading pleasure. I hope all of you reading enjoy it, and please leave reviews telling me how you think I'm doing. Seriously. I live for that shit. - Mikki**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: No Matter Who You Are, You Think Boobs Are Great**

"Some people think having large breasts makes a woman stupid. Actually, it's quite the opposite: a woman having large breasts makes men stupid. - Rita Rudner

* * *

This story begins with the demolition of a shopping mall just outside of Orange County, Georgia.

And, as you may have already guessed, Amelia F. Jones.

The rubble of said building piled up at America's feet, and she dusted her hands off on her short-shorts with a satisfied smirk. "That was fun." She said to herself. The mall had been scheduled for destruction later that afternoon, but America had seen the signs warning people away and had an absolute field day. She loved tearing shit apart with her bare hands, and for once, she could do it legally and without fear of injuring someone!

It took all of three seconds for her to take off like a nuclear missile towards the demolition site.

And now, here she was, twenty minutes later, a mild sheen of sweat on her brow and a team of terrified worker-dudes standing in a row behind her. Some of them had dropped to their knees in prayer, others just stood as still as statues, hoping America couldn't smell their fear.

America grinned and turned, her task accomplished. She felt much better now, having previously been a tiny bit (a lot a bit) stressed about the sorry state of her government (c'mon guys, shake hands, you're not poisonous reptiles, you are fully-grown politicians - no, no- Republicans put your guns away- Democrats! Do not start a gay pride rally in the middle of a meeting! Jesus Christ it's no wonder we can't get a single fucking thing done!). The girl sighed happily and walked back to her car.

She'd parked a little ways away in the lot of the _new _shopping center that was just across the road, and as she reached into her pocket to retrieve them, her hands fumbled and they dropped with a clatter onto the hot pavement.

America grumbled and leaned down to get them.

It just so happened that on this day, she was wearing a very tight, very revealing, bright red tank-top. And it just so happened that on this day, as she leaned forward, any onlookers were provided with a spectacular view of her purple mountains majesty and the grand canyon that ran between them.

Thank goodness there were no onlookers.

Except for this one guy.

America stood up, keys in hand, only to come face to face with the smack-jawed stare of a well-dressed gentleman carrying an expensive-looking briefcase. America blinked. The man blinked. She waited for him to say something, but the two just stood there in the otherwise-empty parking lot in an intensely awkward silence. She thought that if his mouth were any wider he'd be able to catch flies.

"Umm..." America said after awhile. "Can I help you with something?"

The man made a noise like a dying animal, and then quickly scrambled to open his briefcase. America watched him with slight amusement, and then had a crisp white business card was shoved in her face.

The man put on a slightly flustered smile and smoothed back his ruffled hair.

"Excuse me, miss," he began, trying and failing to sound professional. He sounded like a pre-teen asking a girl out on a date. "But have you ever considered a career in modeling?"

America frowned and raised an eyebrow, taking the card in two of her fingers.

"Modeling? Why the hell would I do that?" She said. The man choked and looked at her like she was insane.

"Just trust me," he said quickly. "It's something I think you would be very good at."

America thought for a moment. She'd never been asked anything like this before, and to be honest, it was kind of exciting. She placed her hands on her hips and fixed the man with a hard stare.

"They give out free food to models?" She asked simply.

"As much as you can eat." The man replied instantly.

"Then lead the way, skippy." America said, winking. The man smiled and motioned for her to follow him to what she presumed was his car. As they went, she flipped the card over in her hands and read the man's name. Just below that were two bold words printed in gold ink.

Victoria's Secret.

* * *

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS!?"

"Ohonhonhonhon, our little Mademoiselle has grown up quite splendidly, non?"

"Jesus Christ... just... Jesus. Fucking. Christ... maple..."

Three men stood crowded around the entrance to a store that sold women's under-things, earning them some very confused and hateful glares. They were staring up at the gigantic picture of a woman in sexy lingerie advertising for 50% off all sales store wide. She had her arm positioned behind her back in a highly seductive manner, and she bit her lip as if to say 'Yeah, I'm sexy. Whatcha gonna do about it?'

The woman just happened to be America, and the three men just happened to be her loving family on an outing just before a meeting in New York City, New York.

Britain was livid.

France was wiping tears of joy and pride from his eyes.

Canada didn't know what to say. He was just... at a loss for words.

Sure as hell, all three of them wanted to have a serious talk with America the next time they saw her. About a great many things, starting with where the hell all her clothing was.

And lo and behold, the very same blond came bouncing up to the trio not five seconds later.

"Hey guys!" She said cheerfully. All three of their heads snapped towards he voice, and three separate reactions took place in the span of a second.

Britain screamed bloody murder, starting a rant about indecency and morality and how he was going to put the person who took those pictures of his little girl into the iron maiden.

France enveloped America in a proud hug, cooing to her about how _right _he had raised her and how she was _almost _as sexy as he was at that age.

Canada face-palmed. multiple times.

America didn't know how to respond to the mixed reactions of her family, but smiled was her eye caught the picture in the front window of the Victoria's Secret store. "Wow, those photos turned out great! They really captured my eyes, don't you think?"

Britain made a series of unintelligible strangled noises whilst simultaneously turning the color of a cherry tomato.

"Oui, they did! Ah! The French in you is enough to make my delicate heart burst!" Cried France dramatically, placing a hand on his chest.

Canada remained silent, but a deadly glint shone in his eyes. As his sister continued to admire her sexiness in the window, he quickly pulled the other two men off to the side.

"No one is to know." He said lowly. "No one."

Britain nodded vigorously, still unable to form a coherent sentence.

Even France sighed in agreement, albeit reluctantly. "It is such a shame, but it is for the best, non? We can't have any of those filthy beasts we call allies getting their hands on our beautiful little America's photos, she is too good for them!"

Together, the nations made the pact that they would prevent America's picture from being seen by any of the people in their friend circle. They ended up doing a good job of it too, with no one at the meeting mentioning anything about America and the lacy things beneath her clothes.

Well, except for that one guy. Who didn't say anything out loud for fear of being killed, but still snuck glances at the tiny pretty picture of the blond girl in his wallet.

The guy took a sip of vodka and stole glances at the American whenever he could, his pale cheeks aflame and his heat aflutter.

_What a beautiful Capitalist. _


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Some Walls Are Meant To Be Scaled With One's Bare Hands**

"So, Americans, then. Self-appointed vigilante defenders of the world, kind of like Superman, if Superman were retarded and only fought crime when he felt like it." - Yahtzee Croshaw

* * *

Do you ever have those moments in life where you just question everything you think you know to be true? Where something that you'd believed for as long as you could remember was violently sucker-punched in the metaphorical nutsack?

Well, Japan was having one of those moments.

And it was all thanks to the United States of America.

Who, at that exact point in time, was standing clad in a bright pink leotard with several cans of silly-string attatched to her hips on his back porch, a very determined, very _scary _look on her face. In one hand she clutched a trident, and in the other, a bottle of axe body spray.

This did not bode well.

As it was, Japan could do nothing but gape and stare. Having known America for an untold amount of years, he had become quite used to her unusual habits and impulses. In truth, he had actually been forced to participate in a number of strange and possibly mentally-scarring activities in the past, such as midnight shark wrestling, extreme pogo sticking in the himalayas, upside-down cake baking, and, worst of all, marathons of the Twilight movies.

So, as he gazed upon the strangely garbed American standing there, he was truly not as surprised as he should have been. But he knew enough about the girl and her "sporadicar-ness" to still be extremely wary.

And she wasn't just dressed weird.

Oh hell to the no.

Parked precariously on top of the Japanese man's rock garden was what appeared to be a fully-functional life-size model of the Bat-Mobile, with the words "suck it bitches" spray-painted in pink across the side.

And Japan did NOT know how to handle the situation.

America took a step forward and unhooked one of the cans of silly-string from her waist. She held it out, offering the Japanese man to take it. "Join me." She whispered intensely.

And Japan, knowing he was going to seriously regret his decision, went back inside to fetch his fire-proof vest. America grinned.

Twenty minutes later, the two were on the road to China with Japan wrestled into a matching pink leotard, much to his embarrassment and chagrin.

Oh, this did not bode well in the slightest.

* * *

China sipped his tea and flipped the page of his book, sitting peacefully upon a stone bench and quietly enjoying the calming atmosphere of his mountain retreat. The air was fresh, the sun was shining, and for the first time in a while, the old nation just felt _good. _

But this was not to last.

In an instant, the world flashed a myriad of explosive colors, and randomly began to smell like over-weight middle-schooler (that is what axe smells like), and China was thrown from his seat on the bench and landed face-first in the grass.

The world was no longer calm.

China groaned and attempted to push himself off the ground, only to find that his arms and legs were bound together by some kind of adhesive demon string. The air reeked, and the nation saw that his clothes were covered in pink and purple paint. Above him, he heard giggles.

Familiar giggles.

China craned his neck and looked up, where standing looking over him were exactly the two people he had expected to see. He swore loudly and struggled against his binds. "America! Japan! What the HELL are you doing aru!?"

If it was even possible, America's grin got even wider.

"We're Spider-Men." She said, Japan looking resigned and very tired beside her. "And you're the villain. We just caught you for the sake of justice."

China stared at the girl, wondering if she had finally lost her tenuous hold on sanity. "... What aru?"

Japan sighed and held his can of silly string out in front of him. He sprayed the ground by China's head, leaving a long thin trail of string to the can. "This is our string." He said, sounding defeated. "And you have just been 'stringed'. So you are now our prisoner. And you have to tell us... where the bomb is?" Japan quickly glanced at America, who nodded her head. "Where the bomb is." He said with finality.

"What bomb!?" China screeched, finding himself very disturbed by the fact that he, a four-thousand year-old superpower, was unable to wriggle himself free from a mere inch of plastic-based goo.

"That's what we want to know." Said America, placing her foot on the older nation's back. "Where the hell is it, terrorist?"

"Terrorist aru!?" China cried. "I'm not a fucking terrorist aru!"

"Today you are." Said Japan.

"No I'm not!"

"Yes. You are." Said America.

"You're insane!" Said China.

"Yes. Where's the bomb?"

"Nowhere! It doesn't EXIST!"

"Yes it does."

"No, I'm very really sure that it DOESN'T ARU!"

America pouted like she was disappointed. "... Damn." She said with a sigh. She turned to Japan. "Looks like we've gotta keep going. There has to be SOMEONE out there with an actual bomb for us to diffuse."

"WHAT!?" Screeched China.

America ignored him and placed her hand firmly of Japan's shoulder.

"... To the Bat-Mobile?" Asked Japan when she remained silent.

"To the Bat-Mobile." America said.

And with that, the two nations in pink leotards pranced back over to the smoking crater in the middle of China's yard inside which was their getaway car, America throwing open the door in the most dramatic way possible and leaping inside, Japan calmly opening the door and buckling his seat belt.

Just before America got in however, she turned around and threw something at the prone form of China still squirming on the ground. It landed with a twang directly in front of the nation's nose and stuck a few inches in the ground. It was a fucking trident.

China screamed like the woman everyone thought he looked like and rolled onto his side in a very undignified manner.

America saluted him and clamored into her car. "Let that be a warning to you." She said stoically.

"A WARNING FOR WHAT ARU!?"

Later that day, the nations of America and Japan were seen in no fewer than fifty countries around the world, the personification of each receiving a silly-string prison and a vigorous interrogation about imaginary bombs blowing people up. They were not pleased, and a few even peed themselves in fear of the pink-clad vigilantes before fainting and being rushed to a hospital to check for shock.

None of them actually turned out to be terrorists, much to America's dismay and Japan's great relief.

Well, all except for Prussia.

"You have no right to steal the awesome explosives of the awesome me!"

"Silence, felon! And let this ridiculous trident to the face be a lesson that you cannot explode everything that you disagree with!"

"ARRRGGGHH! SHIT BITCH THAT HURT!"

"Oh dear, here we go again."

**Heya everyone! Thanks for reading again, and I'm sorry that this update took so long. I just was really busy there for a few days, but I promise to make it up to you, tomorrow there will be more than one chapter, so look forward to it! And make sure that you leave reviews. I Love that shit. keep it up. - Mikki**


	11. Chapter 11

**IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!: Hey guys! So. It's been awhile, and for that I apologize. But, I have good news. I will now officially be updating this story regularly, every week on Wednesdays and Fridays, so look out for it! This way, you know when you can expect chapters. Please leave reviews and review questions, as I will be answering all of them at the end of the next chapter. Until then, READ ON MY BEAUTIES! - Mikki**

**Chapter 11: Apparently, You Are Supposed To Remain INSIDE Airplanes While They Are In Motion **

"Women must pay for everything. They do get more glory than men for comparable feats, but, they also get more notoriety when they crash." - Amelia Earhart

* * *

In many ways, flying was the one thing on Earth that made Amelia F. Jones feel really and truly free, her old, ancient biplane an escape from everything cruel the world threw at her.

It made her into a bird, a balloon without a string to tether it down.

It soothed her soul, and allowed her to momentarily cast off the heavy burdens she was forced to carry, allowing her to become something other than what she was, something beautifully different.

And for sure, up in the air, she was different. She wasn't America, the nation, or even Amelia F. Jones, the person. She was the wind blowing across the planes, howling against walls and windows and towers. She was the lighting that struck down trees, the thunder that rattled glass and sent children running to their parents for comfort.

She was freedom.

And whenever she set foot in an airplane, she _relished _it.

And sometimes, when the cold air ran its icy fingers through her hair, and the powerful hum of the engine called to her softly and sweetly, America would throw off her buckles, abandoning the safety measures taught to every young pilot, and ease herself gently out of the cockpit. She would take a deep, _cleansing_ breath,and then she would just stand, lean over, and let herself hang off the side of the plane like an icicle on a branch. And in that moment she would live.

It was when she was like this that she felt the most free.

Her eyes took in the world through a film of tears that streamed backwards instead of down, and the blueness of it all would take her breath away. The horizon was curved, like the side of a marble, and glowed with a multitude of vibrant, _alive_ colors, woven in among the blue that clung to everything like oil paint to a canvas. It was so beautiful. And in that moment, it was all hers.

And she would feel, deep inside, like everything was perfect.

Sometimes, America would even get a little adventurous.

She would dangle from the underbelly of the plane and scream like an eagle, the controls set to forward wherever that may be. She would throw herself up and over the top of the wings and stand with nothing to tie her down full-bodied against the wind, arms spread like they would lift her up and fly her away. She would hang upside down from the side of the cockpit, making the earth her sky and the sky her earth, and in her head, that was the way it stuck, an eternal truth.

She didn't show anyone because these things were hers, and hers alone. She never intended for anyone to see her doing it. But, alas, life has other plans, and sooner or later, she was bound to get caught, living in a way that others simply didn't understand.

That day was a Sunday, when Britain, Canada, and France decided to pay her a visit.

* * *

France knocked on the door for the third time, again, getting nothing in response.

"That's strange," The Frenchman said in contemplation. "Usually Amerique answers the door right away."

"Maybe she's in the loo." Said Britain, crossing his arms and scowling, which he was very good at.

"For fifteen minutes?" Said Canada. "I don't think so. Her digestive system isn't _that _messed up." France knocked again, impatience getting the better of him. On the ground by Canada's foot, Kumajiro huffed in boredom and laid his head on his paws. The little bear like visiting America and all, but all this standing around was un_bear_ably boring (pun. ha. pun). He wanted to run, to stretch his stumpy legs in the fields behind the she-nation's house and when he got tired cuddle into America's soft chest (because everyone wants to. don't lie.).

The bear sighed, melancholy. He experimentally sniffed the air to see if he could pick up America's scent, and to his surprise, wafting on the breeze, he found it.

"America!" He said, startling the others, who'd forgotten he was there.

"Huh? America?" Said Britain, scrutinizing the small animal. "Where? Did you see her?"

Kuma shook his head and stood up. "Smell." He said simply. He sniffed the air again and turned towards where the stone path leading up to the porch curved around the side of the house. "There."

And with that, the small animal waddled off the porch and began walking towards America's colossal backyard. France, Britain, and Canada shrugged and followed.

It is said that no man has ever escaped from Amelia F. Jones's backyard and lived to tell the tale, at least, not with all of his limbs where his mama put 'em. The place was fucking enormous, with grass growing up to even a fully-grown person's chest, ancient trees that towered overhead, and hundreds of vicious wild animals who were said to be trained in the ancient martial art of "killing bitches dead." Legend says that the only way to survive the place is to stay firmly upon the neat little path, lest you be a _bitch_ and get killed.

The three nations plus bear stayed firmly on the neat little path.

They followed Kuma further and further into the backyard, trusting the animal's keen sense of smell to lead them to their girl. When asked, the bear had said that she smelled of wildflowers, honey, deodorant, soft taco shells, and love, whatever the hell love smelled like (which according to France, is so dirty that it cannot be written here for fear of the writer screaming, vomiting, and bursting into flames all simultaneously.)

Soon, the group arrived at a large open field, where the wild grass had been cut short and a large warehouse had been erected at the far end. Kuma sniffed the air again, and then took off like a lightning bolt towards the warehouse, all the while screaming "SOFT CHEST!" for all to hear. Canada sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

He REALLY needed to have a talk with his "pet" about a great many things when they got home.

The three men were about to follow the bear, when a loud metal screeching noise rang through the air. The looked over at the old building a couple hundred yards away, and saw that the large door was being opened, and something pushed out into the sun. After a moment, the something was revealed to be an ancient open-air biplane, and the one pushing it was America herself.

And boy did she look excited.

This was never a good thing.

Even at a distance, the men could see the almost maniacal grin that dominated her features, as well as the pilot's goggled and scarf that hung loosely around her neck.

"Amelia!" Britain called, attempting to get the girl's attention. He huffed when he was promptly ignored, and angrily began to stomp in her direction. "Amelia! I'm talking to you! Haven't you even the decency to greet your own guests when they decide to pay you a visit?" Once again he got no answer, which fueled his small-british-man rage even more.

America just continued to smile, and, upon checking things over with the plane one last time, jumped up onto the side of the machine and lowered herself into the cockpit.

Now, it was no secret that America was an amazing pilot. Her exploits during the first and second world wars were legendary, with even the hard-assed (no homo) German brothers giving her their utmost respect. Still, it was a tiny bit strange for her three family members to see the former war-hero climbing into a plane when last they checked there was no war-ending war raging across Europe.

Canada raised an eyebrow, and attempted to call out to his sister to see what she was doing, but the roar of the fired-up propeller silenced his cries. In the plane, America adjusted her goggles onto her face, and drove the flying machine forward, onto a smooth patch of grass that served as a runway.

Her family members could only watch as she sped up, tiled the wings back, pulled up her landing gear, and took off into the bright blue sky.

Britain cringed a bit at the sharpness of her ascent, his motherly instinct kicking in. But, he trusted America to fly a plane alright, even if he though piloting a flying bird of death WAS a tad un-ladylike.

France smiled softly at the sight. He had always known about his girl's soft spot for the wide open skies, and it warmed his (filthy) heart to see her doing what she loved.

Canada was just trying to make sense of the whole thing.

The three watched America soar around for awhile, enjoying the steady way she handled herself and the constant thrum of the plane engine through the air.

Fifteen minutes in, she began to do loopty-loops, causing Britain to gasp and squeal like a preteen on their period.

Twenty minutes in, she began to spell things out in the sky.

_HUMPTY DUMPTY WAS PUSHED_

_MCRIB IS BACK AT MCDONALDS_

_FUCK IS A BAD WORD_

_I NEVER GOT THE ENDING TO BREAKING BAD_

Forty-five minutes in, America was no longer inside the plane.

This caused all three nations looking up at her to sputter and gasp in shock.

"AMELIA F. JONES! YOU GET BACK IN THAT FUCKING PLANE THIS INSTANT!" Screamed Britain.

But the girl couldn't hear him. She was too busy doing backflips off the side of the wing and catching herself on the side, only to get back up and do it again. She was quite graceful, and with each increasingly dangerous maneuver this only made her family members want to pee themselves more.

"America! What the hell are you DOING!?" Screeched Canada, breaking his normally quite demeanor. "Stop that! You're going to kill yourself!"

The wind blocked his voice yet again, and all the concerned parents/parent-like siblings could do was stand and wait, until at last, America pulled herself back into the plane, and proceeded to smoothly land in the exact place she took off from.

There was a great ruckus as three pairs of feet took off like Switzerland to a rummage sale across the clearing towards the landed machine.

America, on the other hand, was quite calm, and was smiling widely at another successful day of aero-acrobatics. She was yanked by her scarf out of the plane and into the waiting arms of Britain, who proceeded to check her over for any form of injury or concussion or mental-illness he could find.

America grinned at her family. "Hey, y'all! I didn't know you were coming over! I would've made a crumb-cake!"

"CRUMB-CAKE!?" Cried Canada.

"Yeah. Kuma likes them. He keeps asking for the recipe but can't tell him 'cause it involves having to kill him."

"That is not the issue here, Amerique!" France said. "What you were just doing was completely reckless! Do you want Angleterre to die of pre-mature heart failure?"

America blinked. "What're you talking about? The fliyng? OHHHHHHHHHH You mean the part where my sweet bod was no longer INSIDE the plane. Don't worry, I do that all the time!"

"DON'T!" Shouted all three nations simultaneously.

America pouted and let the three fussing girly-men haul her into her house, all the while being scolded for being stupid, reckless, idiotic, and whatever French words there were for the word "imbecile."

Kuma was once again forgotten. He sighed and laid his head on his paws.

"Soft chest..." he moaned mournfully, before getting up and following his "peeps", as America would have called them, back towards the house, wanting desperately to try some of the girl's delicious crumb-cake.

Which before he was dead he would totes have the recipe for.

**CHAPTER NEXT! - ALCOHOL CAN MAKE YOU BELIEVE YOU HAVE ACTUALLY TRAVELED THROUGH TIME!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Let's Do The (Slightly Drunken) Time Warp Again**

"Beer is proof that God loves us, and wants us to be happy." - Benjamin Franklin

* * *

Waking up to the sound of cows mooing directly into your ear is really never a good thing. Especially if that ear is partially submerged in something wet and earth-smelling. From above, a long, moist tongue darted out and skimmed the dirt-caked hair of a certain British nation.

Britain groaned, long and slow.

He felt like death.

No, scratch that.

He felt like he'd been chewed up, swallowed, digested, shat out, and then forced to compete in one of America's god-forsaken toddler pageants in nothing but a mesh bra and yoga pants.

So yeah, like death.

The sun shone hot on his back and made him grunt in discomfort. The Brit attempted to roll onto his side, but found that even that small action caused his head to spin painfully and a myriad of colorful swears to erupt from his strained vocal chords.

The nation once again found himself where he had _been_ finding himself for hundreds of years: face down in an alcohol-induced, semi-conscious stupor, in who-the-fuck-knows-where.

Another slimy lick to the face forced Britain to open his eyes, and when he did, he let out a half-sob half-groan.

There was a fucking cow. In his face. Looking at him with it's big fucking cow eyes.

"Dear God..." The Brit said, rolling onto his back and shielding his gaze from the sun. "What the fuck happened last night!?" The cow blinked and didn't answer. It did lick him again, which made a few frustrated and disgusted tears dribble down the tiny man's face. "Stop that! Can't you see I'm confused and in pain, you brown-eyed meat sack!?" The cow mooed.

Britain pushed himself up on all fours and blinked, looking around. He was in a place he had never seen before, a long pasture filled with livestock and a small very old-looking white building off to the side. He sighed. This wasn't the first time he's wandered off somewhere in a drunken haze and it most definitely wouldn't be the last. Better call his boss to come and get him. The longer he stayed away from work the more likely the queen was to slap him upside the head when he returned to London.

And man could that woman slap a bitch.

Upon getting to his feet, Britain noticed something. He was, in fact, not alone. Scattered around him in various states of nudity and unconsciousness were many of his fellow nations. France, China, Japan, Prussia, Germany, both Italies, Russia, Spain, and Lithuania to be exact. Some of them were draped over each other like great floppy pancakes, while some cuddled with various inanimate objects such as knives, lamps, and stolen garden gnomes. To be sure, all of them were severely hung-over, as one might have inferred by their chorus of painful groans and prayers to God.

Britain scratched his head and stalked over to France. The man was almost completely naked, with nothing but a tiny grass skirt to cover his nether regions.

The Brit promptly kicked him in the shin, and was rewarded by a stream of angry French cuss-words.

"Get up, you tosser!" He said irritably. "All of you, wake up! We need to figure out where the hell we are." The nations all groaned and hauled themselves into various up-right positions, some throwing up, some just swearing a bunch.

"What aru!?" Exclaimed China when he saw where they were. "Where are we? I thought we were in cream-cheese city!"

"Philadelphia, aniki," said Japan, looking green. "And yes, last I checked that was where the World Conference was being held."

"Well, we aren't there now, that's for sure," said Germany. He was trying to keep Italy from slitting his own throat in misery.

"Let me die ve," he moaned. "Just let me die! Mio Dio I'm never going to drink again ve!"

"That's my line, git," said Britain, crossing his arms. "And we have more important things to deal with. Does anyone have a phone we can use?"

"I do," said Russia, smiling happily.

"Well, give it here then, I'll call America so she can come pick us up!"

"One problem, comrade," said Russia. He pointed at Prussa. "It had been surgically implanted into little Prussia's lower intestine!"

There was silence. Fearful silence. Broken only by a horrified scream from Prussia.

"My awesome organs!"

"Be quiet, mi amigo, some of us are trying to sleep!" Said Spain, who was using the front legs of a passing cow as a pillow.

"This is getting us nowhere!" Growled Germany, taking charge as per usual. "There is a house just over there! Let's see if there's anyone home and then we can establish a location."

The nations all nodded and stood up.

They moved like a horde of zombies towards the house, and once they got to the porch, Germany and Britain, who were the only two nations that had managed to hold on to all of their clothing, knocked on the door. A minute later, a young woman answered it.

Everyone gawked.

She was wearing clothes from at least the eighteenth century, complete with hair bonnet and a long frock.

At the silence, and at the sight of several highly attractive men wearing little to nothing on their highly attractive bodies, the woman frowned. "May I help you... gentlemen?" She said, keeping a firm grip on the door frame.

Germany coughed. "Umm, yes, ma'am, we were just wondering if you could tell us where we are?"

"Smith farm, Pennsylvania." She said immediately.

"Yes, that's great thank you," Germany coughed awkwardly. "And uh, would you mind if we used your phone? We ah, seem to have misplaced ours."

The woman then looked confused. "A what?"

"A phone." Germany said slowly. "Can we use one?"

"Whatever that is, we haven't got one." Said the woman. There was a resounding gasp from the nations gathered.

"NO TELEPHONE!?" Cried Romano and France simultaneously.

"That's right," the woman said, looking uncomfortable. "Now, if you'll please leave. My husband will be coming back from tending the fields soon and he won't be very pleased to see a mess of sinners flocked around his home."

"Sinners? What?" Lithuania said, arching an eyebrow.

"Good day, gentlemen." And with that, the woman practically slammed the door in Britain and Germany's faces.

There was silence.

"Well that was strange." Said France.

"Da, it was rather unusual." Said Russia. "But we are in America, so anything is possible because the police do not violently beat their citizens to keep them in line!"

"TMI Russia, TMI," said Britain.

"Well now what do we do, bastards?" Said Romano, placing his hands on his hips. "We're stranded in the middle of nowhere with no phone to call for reinforcements! This is how people get raped!"

"No more Law and Order for you, Lovi," Said Spain.

"I believe it would be best to try and scout our surroundings." Said Japan. "Perhaps we will come across road that can take us back to Philadelphia. I am sure America-san is worried about us."

"Yes, that does sound like the best course of action," said Britain. "Alright then, gentlemen, let's go! We've got three more days of boring-ass negotiations to sit through and I don't want to miss them!"

The nations all nodded their agreement and began their long walk to the dirt road that stretched out from the front of the house.

They walked along it for a little while, Prussia whining about having to receive corrective surgery upon returning home and Britian saying "Walk it off, ya bloody Mary Sue!" As they went, however, the nations began to notice certain thins about their surroundings that struck them as peculiar.

First of all, were the people.

Everyone they met was dressed as though they were pre-colonials, and they all had freakishly biblical names like Jebediah, Gabriel, Abraham, and so on.

Second, was the lack of all things twentieth-century

There were no cars, only these small weird looking horse-drawn buggies. And there were no power lines. It seemed as if there was a definite lack of electricity throughout the entire area, which was disturbing.

Third, everyone they passed had a beard so incredible in length and body that it would make Jesus weep with joy.

Seriously. It was amazing how awesome the beards around this place were. They glistened in the summer sun and occasionally got caught in the ancient farming equipment that freaking _everyone _seemed to be using.

The whole thing was beginning to make the nations a tad uncomfortable.

"Umm, guys?" Said Lithuania tentatively. "It's been, like, two hours, and we still haven't seen any cars."

"I know," said Britain, gravely. "It's beginning to concern me. And just look! It's like everyone within a five-mile radius is trying to cosplay fucking colonial America!" At the thought of America as a little colony Britain swooned and his heart pounded a little faster.

"What if it is?" Italy said suddenly.

"Huh?" Everyone said, turning to look at the small nation.

"What if we're really in colonial America ve!?" Italy cried, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "What if last night, we got so drunk we literally reversed the flow of history!? I didn't know we could do that!"

There was a long, pregnant pause.

And then panic.

"Merde! That erases centuries' worth of immorality that I can never get back!" - France

"Does this mean you foreigners will finally leave me the fuck alone!?" - China

"I can't handle britches! They make my thighs hurt!" - Italy

"Woohoo! No mafia debts!" - Romano

"My awesome organs! Does NO ONE care about my awesome organ!?" - Prussia

"..." - Germany

"... Mr. Russia, please don't think about world domination at a time like this!" - Lithuania

"Tee-hee!" - Russia

"NOOOOOOOOOOO! My armada!" - Spain.

"SHUT UP YOU BLOODY WANKERS!" Britain cried, smacking the Spain upside the head. He then turned to glare at the other panicking nations. "Now listen up! We have NOT traveled through time. We are NOT in colonial America. We are GOING to get back to Philadelphia even if France has to die to make it so. And I WOULD HAVE destroyed Spain's damn armada anyways no matter what he says! Have I made myself clear you bloody gits!?"

Everyone blinked.

"Then how do you explain everything?" Italy said, peering out from the headlock Germany had caught him in.

England paused. He thought about everything for a moment, and then his face went as pale as the flesh of an otaku.

"Fuck a duck we're in the bloody past."

And the panic resumed.

**Thiry-Seven Minutes Later...**

"Yello!"

"Good Afternoon, Miss Amelia, this is Jed, from the Mennonite town just outside Philly?"

"Sup dude! I haven't heard from you guys in like... thirty years!"

"Yes, it had been a rather long time. Well, the reason I'm calling you is because we've had a bit of trouble over in the Amish part of town that I think only YOU will be able to resolve."

"Trouble? What kind of trouble? I eat trouble for breakfast with milk and a beer!"

"... Lovely. It's actually regarding your... er... friends. Or at least they said they were your friends. One of them keeps shouting 'Amelia darling! Daddy wants to glomp you!' It's rather annoying."

"Jesus Christ."

"Indeed. Anyhow, could you please hop a bus over here and take care of things? The Amish Mafia is about to get involved and I don't think ANYONE wants to see that."

"I'm on my way. Don't let Arthur castrate Francis until I get over there."

"Thank you ma'am. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

"Who was that, Amelia?"

"... Mattie, get the shovel."

"The shovel, why?"

"Because when I'm done with those shit-heads, they're gonna need something to scrape themselves off the pavement."

"We're going to Amish country aren't we."

"You bet your sweet maple we are."

"Jesus Christ."

"Indeed, Mattie. Indeed."

**One Bus Ride and Two Civil Rights Violations Later...**

America arrived on the scene to find her two fathers stuck in a tree, arguing about who was going to control the "New World" and threatening each other with stolen butter knives.

She could pretty much guess what had occurred. Beside her, Mathew face-palmed.

"Attention feminine immortals!" America screamed at the top of her lungs. The eyes of ten hung-over nations turned to her. "You are all still slightly drunk! Come out with your hands up and your clothes on, and I WON'T tell your bosses that you got plastered and wandered into Amish country and I had to come get you."

Ten faces lit up in an embarrassed blush.

France and Britain exited their tree.

Italy was released from Germany's death grip.

Germany rubbed his head and prayed for the maker to take him now.

Spain cried "My armada!"

China and Japan sighed and pouted.

Romano was engaged in a conversation with three skinny white dudes with guns on how to be a REAL mafia.

And Prussia was being air-lifted to a hospital for emergency surgery.

Canada and America made all the nations line up and march to the bus waiting on the dirt road a little ways away. But not before kicking a little ass and screaming a few profanities. They all got on the bus and drove the short way back to Philadelphia.

And Russia and Lithuania?

They got a really good deal on some hand made Amish aprons and butter-churns.

**Chapter Next! - Sharks, Sun, Sand, And Inappropriately Touching People While Applying Lotion To Their Bodies**


	13. Chapter 13

**Christmas Special: Love Can Melt A Heart In A Totally Non-Gross Way**

"The worst gift is a fruitcake. There is only one fruitcake in the entire world, and people keep sending it to each other." - Johnny Carson

* * *

For one very special nation, it was the absolute worst time of year.

Christmas time.

That oh-so-nauseating annual festival of stuffing one's face and giving each other presents and loving your family.

The whole thing made him sick to his stomach.

But it wasn't because he hated Christmas, oh no. It was because for over twenty years the nation had spent each and every single holiday season totally by himself. No friends, no family, just him, all alone in his too-big house with nothing but heavily falling snowflakes for company.

It was enough to really get a guy down, you know?

Each year, when that fateful date rolled around, the nation would TRY to invite those he considered his 'loved ones' to his home in order to celebrate. The problem was that most of those people were either dead or utterly terrified of him, or had already made other plans.

Plans that didn't include a large hairy Russian man with the emotional capacity of a tweenager on their period.

And so he would wait, in solitude, for the season to be over, so he could once again forget about the depression that came with what was supposed to be a festive holiday and safely drink himself into a nice coma.

The task would be SO much easier if everyone would just goddamn shut up about it.

All around him, nations were making their annual holiday plans, chattering like gibbons on speed about all of the fun things they were going to do and they people they were going to see. It was the final World Conference of the year, and the excitement was palpable. Even Russia, the enormous sad-sack about whom this story entails, couldn't help the soft and slightly creepy smile that overtook his features.

Across the room, America was speaking excitedly to her brother about "all the totes awesome shit they wuz gonna do" over their allotted holiday break. She wore what could have been considered the ugliest Christmas sweater in the history of the world, decked out with mis-matched trees and elves and a Santa Clause who appeared to have Down Syndrome.

She was drinking (spiked) eggnog, and as she spoke, some of it flew from her mug and splashed onto other nations who either didn't notice or didn't give a shit.

Russia sighed and leaned into his large gloved hand. At least he would get to see his darling (wait darling?) Amerika before she was undoubtedly whisked away by her family to celebrate Christmas.

In his mind, he could exactly picture how a Christmas with her people would play out.

France would get drunk within the first five minutes of being at her house, and then proceed to inappropriately touch everyone and everything he could get his hands on.

Britain would swear a lot, then give everyone something he had knitted himself, and then get made fun of for having a "girly hobby", which would make him swear and join France in his drunken escapades.

Canada would do whatever Canadians did at Christmastime, Russia was sure it involved something with a moose and a pair of greased-up panty-hoes.

And America would laugh. She was always laughing that girl, even right at that moment across the room. Something in Russia made him want to tell the girl that when she laughed, it was like the snow stopped falling in his heart and a ray of sunshine burst through the clouds onto his face.

It was highly disturbing.

The Russian was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't see the very same American ninja-creep up to him until a long slender arms was draped around his massive shoulders.

"Hey there, big guy! Merry Christmas!" America said cheerily. Russia jumped a little and reached for his poison-tipped pocket knife, but upon realizing it was just her, relaxed.

"Hello, America," Russia said with a polite smile. "And yes, the Christmas-merry to you as well."

America laughed. "It's 'merry Christmas' dude," she said. "And I was just wondering why you're over here all by yer lonesome." she sniffed the air around his face. "And sober, too!"

Russia laughed nervously. "It would seem that everyone is off making the holiday plans." _Without me, _he thought glumly though his face didn't show it. "Is no big deal. It is just nice to see everyone having fun and not trying to viciously murder each other like usual!"

"Of course! You can't murder people around Christmas! It, like, totally defeats the purpose of all the 'loving your fellow man' shit!" America said, her arm still draped around Russia's shoulders. "And speaking of loving your fellow man, I was wondering if you had any plans for the holidays this year."

Russia wasn't sure he had heard that correctly. "...Excuse me?" He said after a moment.

America looked bashful and rubbed the back of her head. "I mean... it's cool if you do... I just thought, since Mattie's got plans with Prussia and Denmark, and France and Britain were planning on getting drunk and ruining each other for all other men... that maybe you might not mind spending Christmas with me... at my place... so..." She looked up at him, hope painfully clear in her eyes.

Russia's mind was like pudding.

She... wanted to spend Christmas with HIM? At HER place? With no out of control Europeans there to be annoying? Warmth, like the sun, spread through Russia's chest.

He must have looked really stunned because America said quickly: "It's okay if you don't! I can find other people! You just looked kinda lonely over here and nobody should be lonely around Christmas so-"

"Of course!" Cried Russia, effectively silencing the babbling American and over half of the the other nations in the room. His cheeks reddened at the attention and he cleared his throat to regain his composure. "I am sorry. Yes. Yes, I would like very much to spend Christmas with you at your home, Amerika."

America blinked, and then a wide grin spread across her face, revealing her pearly teeth.

"Yay!" She cried, flinging her arms around Russia's shoulders and giving him a body-destroying hug. "Yay yay yay yay yay! Oh, I'm soooooooo happy! We can do everything! We'll sing songs, eat food, pick out a tree, it'll totes be bad-ass! And you have GOT to see Rockefeller center and go ice-skating! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Why are you screaming?" Said Russia, confused and trying to force air into his lungs.

"Because I'm excited!" Said America, releasing her anaconda grip. "Christmas is the best time of year, but it's even better if you have someone to share it with!" Her smile took on a softer quality, and Russia once again found himself blushing profusely.

Memories of wet lips and a staircase came to his mind.

"I'll see you there then!" Russia was so zoned out that he missed America's last remark.

"What?" He said dumbly.

"My house, three days before Christmas, New York Ciry, New York, you dig?" She repeated.

"Dig what?"

"You are so cute." She pinched his cheek. "Make sure you bring an ugly sweater. It's not Christmas unless everyone is hideous. See you soon!" And with that, she was gone, bounding off to wish more people a merry Christmas and disturb them with her enthusiasm.

Russia's heart wouldn't stop pounding.

He was spending Christmas with America.

_His _America.

She wanted to spend Christmas, the mother of all fat American holidays, with him.

For the first time in twenty years, he wouldn't be alone.

Russia hid his crimson face behind his scarf and thanked a God he wasn't sure he believed in for this outrageous gift.

Maybe Christmas wouldn't be so bad this year after all.

**One Long-Ass plane ride, two B-class misdemeanors, and eighteen ignored parking tickets later...**

Russia stood outside of America's Manhattan apartment with a small suitcase in his hand. His heart was pounding, and for the third time that day he quickly scanned the address on the used napkin America had given him. He checked the side of the building.

This was the place.

He wen into the lobby and looked around. The entire place was decorated out the butthole with Christmas stuff. There were trees, stockings, and tinsel on EVERYTHING. It was like a wonderland.

Russia made his way to the elevator, told the attendant which floor, and anxiously bit his lip as the machine took him up to the top floor overlooking the city.

His mind was racing.

It had been a week since the World Conference, plenty of time for America to change her mind about wanting to spend Christmas with him. What if she had already sent him an email to cancel? What would he do then? Go back to his home like always and wait for all of it to be over? What if-

"We're here, sir," said the attendant, knocking him out of his thoughts.

Russia gulped and stepped off the elevator. He scanned the hallway, and then walked to the left, looking at each apartment number as he did so, until at last, he reached America's.

He took a deep breath. In his suitcase, a small, badly-wrapped parcel made itself known,and Russia's heart-rate accelerated. He knocked, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long, because five seconds later excited footsteps could be heard pounding their way towards the door like a freight train, and then it was flung open, revealing a smiling, ugly-sweater wearing, strangely beautiful America.

"You came!" She exclaimed, jumping up to hug Russia fiercely. "Come in! Come in! I just finished decorating everything!" The nation then found himself being pulled rather viciously into the room, America chattering the whole way. Relief, like a hopeful seed, bloomed in Russia's chest.

Upon entering America's apartment, the nation found himself pleasantly surprised. It wasn't small, but it wasn't the large luxurious space he was expecting, and gave off a very warm, very welcoming atmosphere. The air smelled of freshly baked cookies, and the living room was quaint, with just the right amount of furniture and a tall, un-decorated tree standing in the corner.

"Your tree is not decorated." Russia said dumbly, still reeling from America's hug. America released her grip on his hand and walked over to the couch where a large cardboard box was placed. She picked it up and moved it towards the tree, motioning for Russia to follow her.

"I know," America said, setting the box down. "I thought we could do that together, because it's more fun when you do it with someone else, you know?"

Russia shook his head. "I do not." He said, confused. What could be so fun about dressing up a dead plant for the holiday?

America rolled her eyes and proceeded to open up the box. Russia knelt down next to her and watched as she withdrew a long string of lights and some tinsel. "Help me wrap this on there." She said, and Russia did, blushing every time their hands touched or America sneezed because a pine-needle got in her nose. When they finished, America looked over their work and nodded, satisfied. She then bent over and plugged the light chord into the wall behind it, and all at once the tree was illuminated in warm golden light.

It made Russia's heart melt a bit.

"It is beautiful," he said, slightly awed.

America laughed. "We're not done yet, buddy," she said, ruffling through the box some more.

"We are not? But it looks so good! What else must we put on it?"

"These!" America said proudly displaying a shiny silver ball-ornament that she had withdrawn from the box. "You can't have a GOOD Christmas tree without smothering it in pricey hella-cool ornaments! Here." She placed the ball in Russia's large hand. It was so fragile, for a moment he was afraid he would break it. "Put that on there. Then we'll REALLY get cooking!"

Russia did as he was told. One by one, America took all manner of different ornaments out of the box and handed them to him. There were other multi-colored orbs, and then there were Santas and other Christmas-themed characters. Slowly, the tree's limbs began to fill , and Russia began to agree that it looked much better than before.

The most interesting thing, however, were not the orbs and the Santas. It was the nations Russia was placing with utmost care upon the fresh-smelling boughs of the tree.

They weren't the ACTUAL nations, of course, that would be wrong and slightly psychotic. They were small rectangular ornaments with the flag of each country emblazoned on them, along with a tiny picture of the national personification. There was one for everybody: England, France, Canada, Japan, China, Poland, Lithuania, Australia, Hungary, Germany, the Italy Brothers, both Koreas, all the South American nations.

Even Prussia's old flag was among the fold, despite him no longer holding nation status.

Everyone was there.

Everyone, Russia realized, except for him.

America stood and admired her tree, not noticing the dejected look on her partner's face as she did so. "It's almost perfect." She said cheerfully.

Russia raised an eyebrow. "Almost?" He said.

"Yup! Just one more thing to add." America reached out, and between her fingers Russia saw something that made his heart clench. It was his flag, and his smiling face that she placed carefully onto her tree, her eyes warm and her lips turned up at the corners. "I hope you don't mind, I wanted to put that one on myself."

Russia's face flamed, and he pressed a hand against his chest to try and still the beating of his heart against his ribs. He turned away so that she wouldn't see.

He, in turn, didn't see the blush spreading across America's cheeks as she said this.

"There. Now it's perfect." America said softly.

"Da, I agree." Said Russia, turning back to look at their work.

They both unconsciously inched a tiny bit closer to one another, each silently thinking that it was the most beautiful Christmas tree that either of them had ever seen.

* * *

The next three days passed by in a happy blur for Russia.

America was true to her word when she said that they were going to do everything.

Because SHIT did they do EVERYTHING.

They went ice-skating at Rockefeller center, creating confusion among the crowds as to why two professional-level ice-skaters were wasting their time with normal people when they could have been wearing skin-tight leotards and starving themselves to look beautiful.

They got hot chocolate and walked through a snowy central park, pausing to share stories with some mentally unstable homeless war-vets living under the bridges and in abandoned pretzel carts.

They even went to visit Santa Clause himself, Russia sitting on the poor bastards lap until Santa screamed for him to get up and had him physically removed by armed service guards. He let America sit on his lap until Russia pulled her away, bitch-slapping a slightly pervy Santa for his own good.

Yes, as far as Russia was concerned, it had been the perfect two days. Just him and America. No weapons, no war to fight, just them together. And it was downright magical.

Before they knew it, it was already Christmas Eve, and America was in the kitchen baking cookies and cakes and all manner of fatty American sugar treats. The apartment smelled like an angel decided to smoke pot in the living room, and America looked positively radiant as she frosted gingerbread men and women and hermaphrodites (because they were people too dammit!).

Russia, who was leaning against her counter and watching her, took a bite out of one such hermaphrodite who happened to have M&Ms for nipples and suppressed a delighted moan. He wasn't usually one for sweets, but fuck a bag were these sexually ambiguous gingerbread people delicious!

"Is it good?" America said, taking another tray from the oven.

"Yes," said Russia, swallowing and nodding furiously. "Very good. Incredibly good. I am surprised that you are able to make such delicious pastries despite England's mental retardation when it comes to anything cooking related."

America looked offended. "You think I was gonna let that drunken pirate teach me how to cook? Puh-lease. Francy-pants made sure Mattie and I knew the basics before we even knew how to count to ten."

Russia laughed and nodded. "That sounds like something he would do. It amuses me to think how heartbroken he would have been of any child under his care served him scones from hell." America laughed then too.

It was such a refreshing sound, and not for the first time Russia sighed and gazed dreamily at the girl who was now applying licorice dread-locks to one of her creations. She really was beautiful, he thought, despite being covered in flower and having her tongue stuck out in concentration. And right now, in her apartment, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so peaceful and content.

Sure, their countries might not yet be the very best of friends. And, yes, they had tried to kill each other in the most brutal ways possible in the past. But now, it felt like all of that was gone. That right now, it was only Amelia and Ivan. And truthfully, that was the way Ivan liked it.

Amelia sighed and shut her oven off. "That should hold us for awhile, you think?" She said, looking over her army of cookies and other baked goods.

Ivan chuckled and nodded. "Yes, I believe it will. Although I can only eat so many of your gluttonous American pastries before I die of heart failure."

Amelia smiled and wiped her hands on her apron which said "suck my eggs". "All that vodka will do that before any of my cookies do, bro. Now c'mon. We're missing the Christmas specials!" She exited the kitchen excitedly and literally jumped on to her large comfy couch, switching on her television as she did so. Russia smiled and followed after her.

He took a seat and watched as she flipped rapidly through channels, scanning avidly for something in particular. After a while, she cheered in victory. "Fuck yeah! Grinch is on!" On the screen, a picture of a green spinach man thing with an England-worthy frown appeared.

"What is this?" Russia asked.

America looked appalled. "You don't know How the Grinch Stole Christmas?" She said, eyes widening in shock. Russia shook his head. America scooted closer to him. "Dude! It's like a Christmas classic! How can you not have seen it? That's it, you are watching this beginning to end, no arguments, right now. No ally of mine will spend their life in ignorance of the bamf-ness that is Doctor Seauss."

Russia sighed and prepared himself. If it was an American classic, it was either going to be very violent, or very sexual, so he might as well get comfortable.

**100 minutes later...**

Surprisingly, the movie was actually rather wonderful.

Russia was both amazed and disturbed that he found it so.

The story about the spinach man who hated Christmas and then learned to love it melted his heart a fraction, and a small smile played on his lips as the final scene with all the whos played out.

America, who was really tired after all her baking, had fallen asleep, and her head fell back against the couch, making her face illuminated by the light of the television. Russia smiled affectionately at her. Then, America yawned and stretched, her eyes still closed. And then she did something rather unexpected. She leaned over and rested her head on Russia's large shoulder, causing the man to tense and his face to heat.

He wondered if the American had merely fallen asleep on him, or if she had done it on purpose. The thought of her doing it on purpose made his heart beat quickly.

Russia tried to focus back on the Grinch, but found that it was difficult to do so with America's warm hair his cheek. On screen, the narrator was saying how the Grinch's heart had grown three sizes, and Russia felt sorry for him because more often than naught that could be fatal.

"That's like you, Ivan." America suddenly said from his shoulder. She yawned and snuggled closer. "Your heart's a lot bigger now, too."

Ivan didn't know what to say, so he just said, "Thank you." America smiled into his sweater, and five minutes later she was fast asleep, snoring like a chain-saw. Russia gathered her gently into his arms and carried her to her room. He tucked her in, and looked upon her heart-shaped face with twinkling eyes. His heart felt warm, warmer than it had ever felt, and he found that he like the sensation quite a lot.

Just before he went to his own room, he bent down and kissed the girl gently on the forehead.

"Merry Christmas, Amelia."

* * *

It was Christmas morning, and to one Amelia F. Jones, this meant getting up way too-early and making way too much noise.

Which meant that Ivan Braginsky was woken up way too early because of way too much noise.

The nation groaned and checked hid bedside clock. 6:30 a.m.

Jesus Christ, why did Jesus Christ have to be born at fucking dawn-in-the-morning!?

Outside Ivan's door, America was making a million tiny excited noises. Ivan ran a hand down his face and sat up. She was going to wake him up soon anyway, so why not jump the gun? Just then the door was flung open, and in the hallway stood America, adult-sized footie pajamas and all.

"Get up, Ivan, it's Christmas!" She said excitedly, bounding over to him and flinging herself onto his bed. Ivan oofed at the sudden weight of an American on him, but smiled non the less and swung his legs over the side of the bed. America then dragged him out of the room and into the living room, where the tree was alight and two very neatly wrapped presents lay tucked underneath.

Ivan blinked, surprised.

"Look, Ivan! Finland came!" America said happily. She raced to the tree and snatched up her gift, patting the carpet next to her for Ivan to join her. He did so, and took his unexpected gift in his large hands and gazed at it with awe.

"This is unexpected," he said. "I was sure Finland put me on Naughty List because I set his dog on fire at last World Conference."

"He must have changed his mind!" Said America brightly. "Now, enough talk, presents!" And with that, she ripped off the paper of her gift.

Amelia squealed with delight upon finding her much wished for Easy Bake Oven and can of plutonium.

"He knows me!" She cried. "He really knows me!"

Ivan smiled at her enthusiasm and looked at his own gift.

He unwrapped it slowly, and was pleased to find a bottle of his favorite vodka and a set of new towels inside.

"Is just what I wanted!" He said, squealing like a little girl (Amelia). "I must remember to apologize for burning Hanatamago when next I see Finland."

"What-evs man, you've done worse," said Amelia with a wave. "And besides, it's Christmas! Like, everything gets forgiven and shit! Even the acts of animal cruelty."

"I see," said Ivan. "That is good. There has been much of that this past year."

Amelia smiled, and then excitedly scrambled to her feet. "Wait here! I have to go get your present!" She said.

Ivan was gob-smacked. "Present?" He managed, pointing to himself. "For me?"

"Of course, dude! I can't just invite you over to my house for Christmas and not get you anything!" Amelia said, and turned and raced back to her room.

Ivan smiled. He was getting another present! And from Amelia no less! It really was a Christmas miracle. He sighed happily and let his gaze fall once again to his Finland present. It was everything he wanted. Vodka, and new set of towels, a small velvet box with a note attached to it-

Wait, what?

Ivan reached into his gift and withdrew a small, black velvet case, the kind used for jewelry, tearing off the note as he did so.

It read: "For when you are ready. Mama knows best, you know."

Ivan shrugged at the message and set the note down. He was more curious about the box. If it really was jewelry, then he had no need for it. If it was a joke from Finland for torturing his dog, then he understood. "For when you are ready." What the hell could that mean? Ivan swore, nordics could be so confusing at times. He flipped the lid of the box open, and was about to scoff at the present and the message when he laid eyes upon the most beautiful shining jewel he had ever seen, set into a glowing silver band that was about the size of a woman's finger-

Oh.

Oooooooooh.

Oh shit.

Ivan's face lit up as it hadn't done since his drunken rampage of '82.

It was a ring. A _wedding ring. _

For him to use.

"When he was ready."

What the hell was that supposed to mean!?

Ivan wasn't in love, and he most certainly didn't know any women who were in love with HIM. It must be just some little jest of Finland's, yes, that was it! Hah! Good one, Tino! There's no way I would ever get a chance to use this so I get the joke! Is very funny!

It was then that America chose to re-enter the room, tiny parcel in hand.

Ivan quickly shoved the case with the ring into his pocket and stuffed the note back into the box. He tried to calm his racing heart, but to no avail, and as America sat down beside him once more, he was sure he looked more like Romano than Russia at that moment.

"Here! This is for you!" Amelia said, shoving her present into his hands. "Are you okay? Your face is all red."

"DA!" Ivan said, too quickly. "Da, I am fine! Is just hot in here, that is all! Ah, present, yes, yes, I be thanking you very much for-"

Ivan opened the box-

And GAPED.

Inside was a shiny silver pocket watch with his initials engraved on the front.

It was beautiful, and so precise and exact in it's measurements that he almost didn't want to touch it. He ran a gloved finger over the surface, relishing the solidity of the gift, and lifted the watch out with trembling hands. He flicked it open and watched as tiny gears propelled the hands across the face of the clock, tick-tick-ticking in time with his heart beat.

It was the greatest present anyone had ever gotten him.

"This is- this is for me?" He asked softly, unable to look Amelia in the eyes for fear she would see the sudden wetness there.

"Yup! I called in a favor and had it done as soon as you said you were coming. It's hand-made, and the lining is real silver." Amelia then looked bashful. "Do you... like it?"

"Like it?" Ivan whispered. "I _love _it. Is best thing anyone has ever given me!" On impulse, the large Russian man leaned forward and snatched up the smaller American in his large arms. "_Thank you." _He whispered into her ear.

"You're welcome, Ivan." Amelia said, hugging him back.

Ivan held her for a moment longer, then pulled away, still admiring his watch. He was so dumbstruck that he almost forgot the present he had hidden away in his coat.

"Oh!" He said, slightly embarrassed. "I be having the something for you as well." He reached into his long coat and withdrew and messily-wrapped gift that suffered in comparison to Amelia's neat packaging. Amelia squealed excitedly and seized the box, ripping open the wrapping paper with practiced savagery.

She clawed open the box with her nails, exposing what was inside, and then grew suddenly silent.

On the inside, Ivan was panicking. Did she not like it? Was it not fancy enough or large enough for her tastes? Oh, he knew he should have gotten her the automatic missile launcher instead.

"It's wonderful." Amelia said, so softly that Ivan almost didn't catch it. She looked up, and the Russian could see tears forming on the rim of the girl's eyes, a happy smile on her face. She reached in a withdrew a wooden nutcracker from the box, his blue uniform shining in the light from the tree. "Really, Ivan, he's great." She leaned forward and hugged him with one arm, cradling her present in the other. "Thank you. So much."

"I am glad that you like it." Ivan said. "He is hand painted. I wanted to give you something from me, but that you know. Is not quite so good as your gift, I think, but is best I could do."

"No, it's better!" Amelia said stubbornly, hugging the nutcracker to her chest. Ivan suddenly found himself jealous of his present.

"If you are saying so." Ivan said with a chuckle. Amelia smiled and admired her gift, running her fingers across his golden painted buttons and stroking his soft white beard. Ivan did the same with his new watch, taking in every detail as though he would never get another chance.

Suddenly, Amelia gasped.

"What is wrong?" Ivan said, head shooting up. But Amelia wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were trained on the window on the other side of the living room, outside of which snow had begun to gently fall upon the city of New York. She pushed herself up and ran to the window, pressing her hands and face against the glass with child-like wonder spread across her features.

"It's snowing, Ivan!" She said excitedly. "Quick! Come see!"

"I know what snow looks like, Amelia, I have spent most of my life digging myself out of it." Ivan said.

Amelia shot him a withering look and motioned for him to come anyway.

Ivan sighed and got to his feet, joining the girl at the window and staring out at the feathery white flakes as they floated down over the city. He grudgingly admitted that it was rather pretty, as opposed to the violence of Russian winters. He was so busy looking, that he didn't notice Amelia's hand until it was in his own.

He froze, wondering for a minute if it was real. He didn't want to look away from the window for fear that it would make her stop, and before he knew it, he was lacing his fingers with hers and they were holding hands looking out together at a Christmas miracle.

The velvet case burned in his pocket.

Maybe he would get to use it some day after all.

"Merry Christmas, Ivan."

"You as well, my dear Amelia."

**There you have it! The special Christmas Chapter! Sorry it's so late, the site went down in Christmas so I couldn't upload it until now. My Bad! I hope you all like it, and make sure to leave reviews telling me what you think. Seriously. Those things keep me writing. Also, leave requests for what you would like to see in future chapters. Every other one I'm thinking I'll do like a reader-suggested headcannon, if that's what you guys want. Tell me if you want a New Years Chapter as well, and expect one tomorrow as per the usual release schedule. Until when next we meet! - Mikki**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 13: Sand Is The Herpes Of The Natural World**

"Sponges grow in the ocean. That just kills me. I wonder how much deeper the ocean would be if that didn't happen." - Steven Wright

* * *

America was, for all her epic blonde-ness, an incredibly intelligent woman.

Just ask her genetically engineered velociraptor.

There were moments where she could just swoop in and take charge of a situation, coming up with the best course of action for whatever was going down around her and getting her allies out of some pretty deep shit.

She could handle electrically-charged jumper cables like they were nun-chucks, effectively making her enemies poop themselves in fear.

And let's not forget, she knew both the president song and the element song by fucking HEART.

Yes, there were times when no one could disagree with America's intelligence.

This was not one of those times.

"America-san! Where have all of your clothes gone!?" Screamed Japan upon seeing America walk out of the womens' changing room with significantly less clothing on then when she went in.

America gave him a look. "Dude. Kiku. Chillax! It's called a bikini! It's what all the chicks at my place wear to the beach!"

Japan paled. He himself was wearing a short sleeve jumper and long pants, effectively covering all of his "nudy bits" as America would have called them. He was, in truth, horrified by the idea of an entire beach filled with beautiful women all wearing what America was wearing currently. Not because he swung for the other team, as many a fanfiction would suggest, but because he knew that he wouldn't be able to control himself and would undoubtedly attempt to dress all of them up in semi-pornographic cosplay.

It wouldn't be pretty.

The island nation was about to say something back to America, when from the locker room behind her emerged three of her fellow female nations, all dressed in similar fashion.

Hungary, Belarus, and Ukraine, each well-endowed in their own way, wearing very cute bikinis.

Japan had to get the fuck out of dodge before his nose could go all "the elevator scene from The Shining."

America frowned in confusion as she watched the asian nation retreat. "Huh. I wonder what's up with Japan? He was just fine a second ago."

Belarus crossed her arms and made an annoyed frown. "It does not matter." She said in her usual surly fashion. "I though you dragged us to this godforsaken beach in order to have some... what did you call it? Fun?"

America laughed and slung an arm around the shorter girl's shoulders. "Yup! Speaking of fun, lets go have some before the boys ruin it with their constant bitching! C'mon!" Hungary and Ukraine cheered. Belarus's scowl lessened a fraction.

Elsewhere, a dozen very hot, very BOTHERED male nations were acting like idiots. So, like usual, but on a beach.

Remember the whole America can be a total idiot thing?

This was it.

It had been America's FANTASTIC idea to relieve some of the ever-present tension of her fellow nations by taking them all on an all-expenses-paid vacation to sunny California, where the sun was always shining, there was plenty of sand to run around on, and there was enough water for everyone to try and drown everyone without getting caught.

Fun.

Currently, the guys were all having a competition to see who could dig a hole to China fastest, China himself sitting off to the side screaming "You assholes aru!"

America sighed when she saw this. At least it was better than them trying to physically harm one another.

"Hey, Amelia!"

America turned her head to the voice and upon finding its owner smiled widely. All of the girl nations other than her locker-room crew were gathered under a large umbrella a little ways down the beach, Liechtenstein waving them over enthusiastically.

It was a well-known fact that the girls had a sort of secret club thing going on, one that none of the guys could understand. Unlike their male counterparts, they didn't fight like rabid dingos every chance they got, and actually enjoyed each other's company and just hanging out.

You know, girly shit.

"Hey, Lili!" America called back, running over to the others while simultaneously screaming "bay watch moment!" "How's my favorite pajama-lover?"

Lili smiled and blushed. "I-I am very well. Thank you for asking." Beside her, Belgium was playing with a passed-out Vietnam's hair, Taiwan blowing bubbles in her iced tea and giggling at nothing. Hungary and the rest set their towels down on the sand and joined them.

"Fuck, it's hot," said Belarus, fanning her face with her hand.

"Why thank you." Said America, puffing out her chest. "It's nice to know you think I'm hot, Nat." Said Nat shot her a withering look but said nothing, as that would require energy. "Now then, we're all here so let's get down to business. Who's going swimming with me? C'mon, don't be shy! Who wants a dolphin ride from this sexy beast?"

"What's a dolphin ride?" Said Taiwan.

"It's magical, that's what it is." Replied America, putting her hands on her hips. "Now enough talk. The ocean calls to me." And with that, she leaned down and picked up both Liechtenstein and Belarus in either arm, and then proceeded to book it towards the water like something was chasing her.

Both captured girls screamed indignantly, but were quickly silenced upon receiving a face-full of salty ocean water. America laughed and jumped into the waves after them, easily dodging the knife thrown at her face by Belarus. "Let's play, ladies!" She cried, and splashed her friends merrily. At first, it was annoying, and Belarus found herself wanting nothing more than to bitch slap the girl and go home. But as she was tackled into the shallows by a "girly bro-hug", she found her irritation beginning to lessen. This was always the case with America. The girl's actions caused even Belarus to momentarily lose her totally goth outlook on life and smirk.

All for that girl, Amelia F. Jones.

If it were anyone else throwing her into the sea, they would be on their way to the hospital by now.

If it were anyone else urging her to be social and love life, they would have one less organ in their body right now.

If it were anyone else beginning to love her brother... well...

We all know how that song and dance goes.

But it was Amelia. And as the girl danced like a fairy in the salty ocean spray, Belarus reaffirmed her belief that that was what made all the difference.

How did Belarus, the ice-queen of the world. know this?

Well, that too is a story for another day.

Belarus was blown out of her reverie by the familiar terrified screaming of her so-called allies. America too looked up from her play, only to see France, Prussia, and Spain, buck-naked, sprinting down the beach in pursuit of a squealing Latvia. They were screaming something along the lines of "clothes are for people who hate babies" or something like that.

America sighed.

Time to reign in the fun before someone got arrested.

She exited the water and walked up to where the Bad-Touch-Trio had the trembling Latvian pinned against a palm tree. She cleared her throat, and watched with amusement as three semi-guilty-but-mostly-scared old men turned to face her.

"Now," she began in her best "Imma scold you" voice. "What is the proper beach behavior?"

Three relpiles: "No groping, no teasing, no running without clothes on."

"Good." Said America with a sickly sweet smile. "And how many of those rules have you listened to in the last thirty seconds?"

"None."

"Good! And do you remember what I said I would do if I ever caught any of you disobeying my rules?"

All three men paled. Even Latvia, who wasn't even in trouble, paled.

They all nodded, not wanting to say it out loud lest it become real.

"That's right. Now, I've got my riding crop back on the bus, and I've made sure to remember all of my polka CDs. So. Are we going to behave ourselves?"

Three frantic nods. Four if you count Latvia.

"Good. Now, begone. Switzerland looks lonely, go ask him to build a sandcastle and try not to get shot. And put some goddamn clothes on! This is not a European beach!"

From behind her, America heard a very distinct, very italian, "Fuck!" followed by hurried footsteps in the direction of the boy's locker room.

Prussia, Spain, and France nodded again, and then took off to find their clothes. America sighed heavily and crossed her arms. Maybe the whole beach thing was not such a good idea. She had sand in places she didn't even remember she HAD! And she didn't even want to KNOW why Russia had constructed what appeared to be a military base out of sand and was throwing dates at people.

God, these nations today.

"Hey there, Sheila!" Came a very friendly call from behind her. America turned, and her mood was instantly lifted to see her step-brother Australia standing there, holding two surfboards one under each arm.

"Aussie! My man!" America said, rushing up to him and hugging him around the neck. She eyes the boards with interest. "Are those what I think they're for?"

"They ain't for chasing dingos, that's for sure." Australia said with a grin. "Whaddya say, ya wanna catch a few o' them beauties out there or what?" He offered her a board, green eyes twinkling with mischief. America seized it and placed her hand on her hip with a smirk.

"Lead the way, Joey," she said. "I'm right behind ya, mate!"

The Aussie smirked, and together they raced towards the water, the waves like sirens begging to be ridden. They hit the ocean like sharks, cutting through the spray with practiced ease that would have made an olympic swimmer jealous. They swam until they were a couple hundred yards out, far enough that everyone could observe their awesome but still come rescue them if they were drowning.

Before they knew it, the first wave was upon them.

America cut through it like butter, coming out on the other side and waiting with her back turned and her belly flat on the board. When the next wave hit, she pushed herself up and balanced on the board with arms outstretched, just letting it carry her wherever it wanted to go. She loved surfing. She just felt so much closer to nature, to her roots, than if she were running or driving. It was a great feeling, one that she and Australia could only share with each other, being the only two nations who surfed out of all of them.

When the wave was done, America immediately paddled back out to catch the next one, watching as Australia cut and twisted with his wave in a very artistic and show-offy fashion.

They spent hours like this, riding the waves, seeing who could stay upright longest, making obscene hand gestures to the people on the shore.

At last, the surf went flat, and the two paddled in to shore only to be greeted with the sight of a full-scale sandcastle based war, with food as the weapons and the smaller nations as foot soldiers.

It was to make up for the World War Three that didn't happen, but secretly, everyone knew that it should.

America was too tired to do anything about it, and so sighed and offered to buy Australia a beer. He agreed without hesitation, and together they, along with the girl nations who were far to intelligent to get involved, watched as the war drew out, casualties were called, and eventually Britain and Russia were the only ones standing. And we all know who was going to win in a hand to hand struggle between a limy magician and a six-foot yeti-man.

It was Russia. And Britain was embarrassed. Sexually.

All in all, America thought that the day was a win. The nations had resolved their differences in a semi-constructive way, and nobody died or got a sexually transmitted disease, so yeah.

Win.

Everyone was too tired to fight after all that, and so they had no choice but to sit together and watch as the sun set over the California coast, the curve of the world still visible, even after the light had faded and the stars had come out.

**Chapter Next: If You're Mad At Something, Smash It With An Axe. That Usually Works. **


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 14: Nothing Says Love Like A Battle-Axe To The Face**

"A man who has never made a woman angry is a failure in life." - Christopher Morley

* * *

America was pissed.

No, scratch that.

She was ten seconds away from krav-maga-ing something into oblivion.

And for those of you who don't know, Israeli street fighting is a VERY painful way to die.

Or, in America's current opinion, not painful enough.

The girl could barely contain her mounting fury. Her government, particularly a certain group of middle-aged white people known as congress, was being a total buttmunch. As per usual, the conservatives weren't budging on ANYTHING, and the dems were just forming a whole bunch of sub-committees that accomplished NOTHING! Whenever you put them in the same three-foot space, they just growled and hissed at each other, and then retreated to opposite ends of the room to plot creative ways to fuck each other up.

It was was enough to make a national personification a little bit stabby. As in, she really needed to stab something whether it was human or not.

She stalked down the halls of the White House with her fists clenched at her sides, muttering angrily to herself and making the staff throw her some very concerned and frightened stares. She made her way to her room (because of course she had her own room in the White House, she'd been complaining about it for, like, two-hundred years and finally they had given her one) and threw herself down on her Spider-Man comforter and just screamed.

It was very angsty-teenager-ish.

America did this for a good five minutes before she finally sighed and sat up. She crossed her arms and glared at her knife-and-bullet riddled One Direction poster, silently wishing death upon Harry and his perfect hair. Why couldn't her government be that perfect!?

America felt another scream coming on, but instead of releasing it, she repressed it. She'd been screaming her way to sanity for well over fifty years, and it was getting rather old. She needed a new way to release all her pent-up murderous intent.

She thought for a moment, several ideas coming to her at once, none of which were legal.

Torch the White House lawn? Too conspicuous.

Streak across town on the back of a rhinoceros? Last time she did that the President put her in a time-out.

Shoot things until she ran out of bullets? That wasn't helping the whole gun-control debacle at all, now was it?

America growled in frustration. How the hell was she going to keep from murdering people if all her ideas involved her possibly murdering people!? She hung her head in her hands, about ready to give up.

And then she spotted the viking war axe hanging on her wall.

A smile split America's face.

She knew EXACTLY what she was going to do.

* * *

"Hello, is this Mr. Matthew Williams?"

"Yes, how can I help you?"

"This is Barrack Obama. I'm calling because we appear to have a situation on our hands."

"*sigh* Who did she kill?"

"No one yet, but at the rate she's going, it could happen any second."

"Alright, I'll be there in an hour. Do you want to explain the situation, or should I see it for myself?"

"You should probably come see it for yourself."

"Okay. Try to keep her contained in one area for now, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Mr. Williams. Thank you so much."

"It's my job sir. Goodbye."

...

"If it's that goddamned dinosaur I'm going to lose it."

* * *

Exactly one hour later, Canada arrived in Washington D.C, only to find exactly what he had feared occurring outside the Smithsonian National Museum.

America, on mounted back of her bloody fucking dinosaur, wielding a giant viking-style axe and screeching at the sky.

"Shit." Canada said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's always the axe. Why can't she ever do something normal, like shoot stuff or drink herself into a nice coma? AMELIA F. JONES! IT"S YOUR BROTHER! DISMOUNT THE RAPTOR AND WALK OVER HERE SLOWLY!"

America's eyes shot towards him, completely disregarding the army of secret service keeping her contained to one area. There was a wild look in them, like she was facing a sea of enemies that she couldn't wait to slaughter. It sent a shiver down Canada's spine.

"No can do, Matt!" She called, urging her hissing steed forward. "I'm still pissed, and they took away all the breakable stuff! I'm not backing down until they either give it the fuck back or fight me like men!"

Oh boy. It was worse than he thought.

"You want to fight them!? Are you sure!? We can talk this over! I'll even make pancakes!"

America just shook her head and gave another war cry, pouncing into the crowd and causing the terrified suits to scatter. She then proceeded to level a tree in one swing. A large tree.

"Fuck." Said Canada. "I guess it's time to call in reinforcements." He took out his phone and hit the speed dial, and then waited as the phone rang on the other side. At last, the person picked up.

"H'llo?"

"Sweden? It's Canada. America's on the warpath and she's gone all viking on us. Can you and your people come down and help? I'm afraid she's going to disembowel someone pretty soon."

There were a few seconds of tense silence.

"... We'll be there."

The phone clicked off and Canada sighed. He had better go grab his helmet and breast plate.

* * *

"Who was is Su-san?"

"America wants to do fighting."

"Again?"

"Again."

"*sigh* I'll call Denmark. He's been waiting for this for too long."

"Mmm."

* * *

A few more hours passed in the American Capitol with a couple thousand more dollars worth of damage being done to the city and a full-scale terror alert being issued.

Canada could only watch it happen, trebling behind his shield and thinking how unfair it was that his sister could be this violent outside her "time of the month."

Then, at last, the Nordics arrived.

"Where is she!?" Said Denmark, bounding up to Canada with a slightly manic grin on his face. He, unlike the rest of the world, loved it when America got angry, especially if it brought out her inner she-viking. It gave him a chance to battle with someone who more often than naught kicked his ass. Plus, it made awesome discussion material for their annual Awesome Trio meetings. He was just said Prussia couldn't be here to see it.

Canada pointed a trembling finger to the World War Two monument, the space that America had claimed as her "stronghold" and was currently defending from a hoard of armed policemen. Iceland and Norway both facepalmed. Finland laughed nervously and Sweden remained impassive.

Denmark rushed forward with a cry of "AT LAST!"

"We'd better get in there before she kills him." Said Iceland, rubbing his temple.

"Unfortunately." Muttered Norway.

"What was it that caused her to get so angry?" Asked Finland, turning to Canada.

"It was probably those bitches in her government. I'm actually surprised she didn't snap sooner."

"Mmm." Said Sweden.

In the distance, the police dispersed at the sight of a challenger coming to replace them as America's foes, all breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Denmark laughed and brought out a sword from who-knows-where. America also laughed, but it sounded more insane.

With that, the two commenced their battle. Axe on sword. Dinosaur against strangely feminine legs.

Denmark was joined by the rest of the Nordics save Finland (because he secretly found it cute that America could fight so well and he wanted to take pictures for his scrapbook).

The battle was epic. It raged over three counties, lasted two days, and involved some thirty-thousand dollars in lawsuits and property damages. Punches were thrown, clothes were ripped off, and towels were tied into super-hero capes around shoulders because it looked cool and added a dramatic effect.

In the end, America was on foot, Raptor-Jesus having gotten tired and run home to watch Grey's Anatomy, which was his favorite show. She was breathing heavily, and her hands were blistered from gripping her axe so tightly.

Denmark, and everyone except Sweden, was unconscious.

Canada and Finland sat a little ways away, having tea and waiting for the madness to end.

At last, America sighed and allowed her axe to fall to the ground. She wiped her hand along her sweaty brow and smiled at Sweden, who just stood there looking like a bad-ass.

"Well, that was fun!" She said cheerfully. "Want to come over to my place for victory biscuits?"

"Mmm." Said Sweden with a nod.

"Great! Grab your buddies and we can go. Hey Matt! It's all clear! I appeased my frustrations on Denmark's face!"

"That's great, sis!" Canada called. "Victory biscuits at your place?"

"Victory biscuits at my place!"

"Sweet!"

The group of countries made their way to America's Virginia home, hitchhiking most of the way and running from the serial killers who picked them up the rest.

America made biscuits, the conscious people had a laugh, and then everyone passed out on her enormous couch, bruised and bloody and very very relaxed.

For America, it lasted until congress decided to reconvene the next morning.

**Chapter Next: Babies Belong With Their Mothers, Not The Crazy People Who Kidnap Them**

**A/N: Hey Guys! Oh My God. The Fave Meter cannot be right. It hasn't been a month and already that many!? Holy poop! Thank you all so much for your reviews and all your love, and I just wanted to get this chapter out to apologize for the late release of the last chapter. Please continue to leave reviews telling me what you think! - Mikki**


	16. Chapter 16

**New Years Special: Time To Make New Resolutions You Say You're Going To Keep, But You Really Won't**

"If you want an interesting party sometime, combine cocktails and a fresh box of crayons for everyone." - Robert Fulghum

Times Square was packed to the brim with excited Americans. Some old, some young, some drunk off their asses, and some sober. All were patiently waiting for the famed ball to drop, and for the new year to begin.

It was quite the spectacle. There was glitter on everything, and everywhere you looked people wore novelty hats and glasses with the new year plastered all over them to celebrate. If there's one thing Americans are good at, it's throwing a good party. And what a party it was.

America herself was in the thick of it, yelling and screaming with the rest of the tipsy New Yorkers as the NBC cameras rolled by and the hosts introduced all the various musical guest. But she wasn't alone, as she had been in so many past years.

Russia was with her, a pair of ridiculous year glasses on his face and a flask of vodka in his hand.

He was kind of out of place among the throng, but for once, he didn't care. She was with him. That warm, bright little superpower who affected him more deeply than anyone else ever had.

And he relished it.

And secretly, so did she.

After Christmas, America had invited Russia to extend his stay through New Years. Because well, neither of them really wanted to spend the rest of the holidays alone, and the thought of spending more happy-fun time together was very, VERY appealing.

More so than it should have, or ever had before.

It was safe to say that something new was in the air for the two nations, and it wasn't a fresh year, that's for sure. The something was warm, and tender, and both personifications felt it deep inside, like a need, like whatever it was neither of them could live without it.

It wasn't friendship.

But neither Russia or America was ready to acknowledge what it REALLY was.

Yet.

And it was why Russia had accepted America's offer without a second thought.

Currently, it was 11:45, fifteen minutes until show time.

America turned to Russia and grinned at him, her painted cheeks flashing in the light of the Jumbo-tron and her empty huge-ass Mountain Dew cup falling to the ground (because SCREW the mayor, I can drink as much as I want!). She took his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder, causing him to blush deeply but not pull away.

He liked the sensation.

"It's almost time, Ivan." Amelia said so only he could hear. "A whole new year. A blank slate. Anything could happen, huh?"

Ivan nodded and his eyes fell on the countdown clock. "That is right." He said, wrapping a gloved hand around America's. "There is whole new possibility for things, da? England could shave his eyebrows, China could stop consuming weird things..." he lowered his voice to a whisper. "We could be something..."

"What was that?" Amelia said.

"Nothing, nothing!" Ivan said quickly. "I was just talking to myself, da? Whole new kill list to make this year. Is much work."

Amelia nodded in understanding. "I hear ya, bro. The CIA's got me working overtime with all their 'terrorists are everywhere' shit. I can't have a cup of coffee around here without them handing me some new 'special assignments.'"

"That is sounding tedious."

"You know, it really is."

Ivan chuckled softly. The two nations then lapsed into comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other's company. On the clock, the time read five minutes to new beginnings.

In his heart, Ivan suddenly felt something new. It glowed like a hot coal in the icy darkness of his soul and illuminated everything around it in brilliant light. He hadn't felt like this in over a hundred years.

It was hope.

Hope for the future.

"My resolution this year is to eat more pie!"

Hope for himself.

"I didn't eat NEARLY enough over the last twelve months and that needs to get fixed. Like, now."

Hope for the small something between him and Amelia.

"Two minutes Ivan, get ready to count down!"

Just... hope.

"Here it comes! Count down time!"

It was something he had missed dearly, and now welcomed back like an old friend.

And just like that, Ivan found himself smiling like an idiot, and he joined in the chorus of voices as they counted down the seconds to the new year as one.

One voice.

One people.

10

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

1

America kissed him.

And it felt like the world was suddenly new.

"HAPPY NEW YEARS!"

**A/N: Awwwwwww! We have a budding relationship on our hands, folks! As per request, the horrifically short New Years chapter is done! I hope you guys like it, and make sure to review telling me what you think and any ideas you might have, because I am totes open. Until next time! - Mikki**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 15: In Which America Learns It Is In Fact WRONG To Kidnap Cute Babies**

"When I ask how old your toddler is, I don't need to hear '27 months.' 'He's two' will do just fine. He's not a cheese. And I didn't really care in the first place." - George Carlin

* * *

Everyone should have known something was wrong the minute America showed up to the meeting with a human baby strapped to her chest, smiling and humming to herself like she hadn't a care in the world.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?" Screamed Britain as he caught sight of his former colony that morning.

America gave him a look and took a sip from her starbucks. "I got coffee." She said, raising an eyebrow like HE was the crazy one. "Big shocker."

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEAN YOU TWIT!" The island nation continued. He pointed at the child giggling happily in the harness on America's front. "WHY- FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY - DO YOU HAVE A BABY!?"

America looked down at her strange charge and smiled innocently. "So you noticed." She said, placing her hands on her hips. "You jelly? He was so cute I couldn't resist. I just snatched the little sucker and ran. His mom was on her phone. Bet she doesn't even know he's gone yet!" America grinned and began making goo goo noises at the baby.

Britain, however, was paralyzed with disbelief. All around them nations were beginning to get the "America's done a really bad thing and we might get blamed for it" look. America pinched the baby's cheeks and smiled wider when he giggled. "I'm thinking of calling him George. Not like the Bush, like the Washington, because... ah, well, you know. Bush."

Britain massaged his temples as he tried to take in the situation. "I need a bloody drink." He said. "And the local police. Can someone get me the police please?"

"You always need a drink, mon Angleterre. But I do believe that it is a bit early to be notifying the authorities. The meeting hasn't even started yet!" Said France as he swaggered up from behind the two other nations. "Was that your womanly scream I heard? Don't tell me someone touched you and I wasn't around to..." He caught sight of America and her little friend, who was happily drooling all over her blouse. "... Amerique?"

"Yeah dude?" Said America, not looking up.

"Where did you get that petite enfant?"

"Starbucks."

"I see. I was unaware that they sold human children in the same establishment as sugary breakfast beverages."

"She didn't buy him at a coffee shop you twat!" Cried Britain after recovering from his initial shock. "She stole him! America bloody STOLE a child from its bloody mother! And she's not even sorry! Look at her! She's just playing with the damn thing like it's a bloody dog!"

"Hey," said America, her tone threatening. "George is a HIM. Not an IT. And besides, dogs are cool." She paused for a second in thought. "Babies and dogs eat the same food, right?"

"You see what I mean!?" Britain exclaimed, giving France an exasperated look. "She's finally lost it. Three hundred years in the making and she's finally gone off the deep end! Where did I go wrong!?"

"Calm, Angleterre, calm," said France, laying a placating hand on Britian's shoulder. "First things first, we need to get our dribbling friend here back to his maman. A meeting full of sexually frustrated blood-hungry nations is no place for a child."

America gasped and hugged her stolen goods to her chest. "No way dude! I just got him! I can't take George home ALREADY! He's way to cute to give back, just look at him!" She held up the child Lion King style and shouted for all the room to hear: "He is the monarchy-usurping dictator of cuteness!"

Britain growled and crossed his arms, a sign that shit was about to go down. "Two things: ONE, George isn't even his real name! TWO, YOU CANNOT STEAL CHILDREN AND EXPECT PEOPLE TO BE OKAY WITH IT!"

America pouted. "I can't?" She said innocently.

France ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Non, Amelia, you cannot. Now, before the meeting starts, I suggest we return George to his mother. She is probably freaking out that someone stole her baby, yes?"

America sighed, but nodded reluctantly. "Fine. I'll take him back. But if there's another cute baby on the way, don't expect me to return here empty-handed."

"Oh sweet Jesus." Britain said, shaking his head in disbelief. And concern. A LOT of concern. "Just go! The mother had probably alerted the entire city to your felony. And expect a firm slap on the wrist when you get back. I'll not have any girl of mine kidnapping children just because she finds them cute. That's serial killer shit, Amelia, you know that!"

America nodded again. "I know, I know, I'm going! Say goodbye to eyebrows, Georgie, we're going on a roadtrip." The baby looked up from America's, and upon seeing England's face, particularly his eyebrows, began to cry as though he had just been stabbed. "Shit, Iggy, what'd you DO!?"

England suddenly became quite flustered, his long-forgotten aversion to crying babies surfacing after many years of being repressed. "I don't know! I just looked at the poor thing, nothing more!"

"Well there's your problem, Angleterre!" Said France, rather amused. "He is terrified of your face, just like the little ones always have been."

"Belt up you bloody frog!"

"Belt down? If you insist, mon cher!"

"KEEP YOUR TROUSERS ON YOU FUCKING IMBECILE, WE'RE IN PUBLIC!"

America sighed, tuning the two out as they began a choking contest. "I'll just go." She said, her wave to them going unnoticed. "Be back in a few." She turned sadly to look at the still wailing child strapped to her boobs. "Looks like our play date's over, eh little guy?" And with that, she turned and walked out of the room, passing Canada as she went.

The North American nation raised an eyebrow as he saw his sister walk by.

"Was that a baby?"

* * *

Surprisingly, the woman America had taken George form was still chatting away on her phone when she arrived back at Starbucks, completely oblivious to the fact that her son had been whisked away by some strange girl for twenty minutes of coddling and cheek-pinching.

It kind of pissed America off.

The woman's son had been kidnapped for Spock's sake! And here she was talking it up like she didn't have a care in the world. It made America hesitant to put the kid back in his carrier.

She snuck up from behind the lady, just as she had done before, and loosed the baby from the stolen harness.

America held him in her arms and her eyes went soft, his smell, the feel of his warm body against her chest, all bringing back desires and emotions she thought she had put behind her a long time ago.

It made her sad.

America pressed a soft kiss into the baby's head before she lowered him into his carrier, fast asleep. She smiled, and shot a glare at the mother's shoulder, causing her to flinch as though she'd been struck by some invisible opponent.

As America left, she stared at the sky wistfully.

A hand drifted to her belly, and she wished for the first time in two hundred years that she wasn't a nation.

Because babies and nations didn't mix.

And that's what saddened Amelia the most.

**Chapter Next: Birds That Swoop In Like Bad-Asses And Steal Your Shit**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 16: It Isn't Stealing If You Use A Falcon To Do It**

"The reason birds can fly and we can't is simply because they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings." - J.M Barrie

* * *

"And that was when the waffle machine caught on fire. I swear, it took three days to clean up all the yogurt stains and bloody shrapnel! However, it was worth it due to the valuable lesson I learned in not listening to instructions from drunk people in London. Your turn lady fingers."

"Oui, let us see, non? The strangest thing-"

"Non-sexual thing, frog."

"Uggh, fine. The strangest NON-SEXUAL thing that has happened to me in the last six months was... hmmm... Oh, I know! It was when little Italy came to visit and he was wearing - ah, I shudder to say it - CARGO PANTS! Can you believe it? The second most stylish nation on the planet comes to the home of the first and he is dressed like some sort of American d-bag on his way to a frat boy party! I nearly fainted from shock! I had to call his brother to make sure he wasn't mentally unstable! It turned out that he was just being punished by Germany for getting drunk and accidentally seducing his secretary. Can you imagine! In any case, that is my story. Who is next?"

"... I guess I'll go, eh? Ahem. Well... it happened only a few days ago actually. I was in my backyard weeding my vegetable patch-"

"In the flower apron or the cute one with the fake blood stains on it?"

"Blood stains. Anyway, I was weeding, and all of a sudden I got this really weird feeling, you know? Like something was watching me. I look up, and standing right in front of me is this guy, just out of nowhere! He was wearing a suit and - get this - an eyepatch! Like, some kind of double-oh-seven shit. I didn't know what to do, so I just said, 'can I help you?' And he says, in this really *snort* HIGH PITCHED voice... 'The walrus sings at midnight.' And then he just walked off! Like he was some kind of freaking forest animal! I haven't seen him since, but lately I've been receiving a lot of pictures of cats with bread strategically placed on their heads. I think I'll have to up my security again, especially after what Amelia did last month to all my secret servicemen."

"Those bitches were weak sauce. I mean, what kind of super secret bodyguard can't take a couple liters of blood loss?"

"Normal ones, love. Normal ones."

"Yeah, well normal sucks ass."

"Okay, mes petites, moving on! It is getting late and I need my beauty sleep. Amerique, I believe it is your turn?"

"Huh? *burp* Cool beans. Let's see... in the last six months I've... driven my car into an IHOP full of World War Two Vets, had oranges thrown at me by a set of coked up sextuplets in Yosemite National Park, woken up naked next to the statue of liberty, AGAIN..."

"Yes, yes, we get the point, eh. Just pick one so we can go the fuck to sleep! My boss is expecting us all bright and early tomorrow and I'm not carrying any bodies into an official meeting."

"... Oh, and I joined a gang."

"..."

"..."

"... Wait what?"

"I joined a gang."

"What do you mean you joined a gang, Amelia?"

"I just fucking joined one! I dunno how it happened. One minute, I'm holding up three fingers to John the coffee guy at Starbucks saying I want triple the normal dosage of caffeine, the next, like, three different beefy black guys are all up on me with all these random hand shakes and shoulder touches. Next thing I knew I was in a jeep headed to a drug den in Colorado and being given orders to take out a guy named Snake. We have to communicate by falcon. It's really hard."

"... Falcon? Well I'm out. You win! Adopted by criminals is better than stalked by a guy with an eyepatch."

"Oui, and seeing Italy in, ughh, casual wear."

"I thought my story was pretty good. It involved drunkenness!"

"All your stories involve drunkenness, Ig."

"..."

"Well, then, let us get some much needed rest, non? I need to look my best for what's his name tomorrow."

"That's my prime minister, Francis."

"I don't even know what the gang was called!"

"Not all of my stories involve me being drunk! I'll have you know I once received a very painful papercut that later required hospitalization!"

"The least you assholes could do is know the name of the guy you're going to be meeting!"

"And I still haven't found Snake! Seriously. Once drug dealer should not be this hard to find. And that fucking falcon ate my gerbal!"

"Come on, mes petites, off to bed! No America, I don't have any purina falcon chow on hand."

"No touching, frog!"

"*yawn* Okay. G'night, fellas. Call me if you wake up with some guy with tattoos on his face pointing a gun at your head."

"Noted. Night Amelia."

"Yes, goodnight, love. No, France, not you."

And with that, the nations clambered into their respective beds with visions of gang members and meth dancing through their heads.

**Chapter Next: This One Time, At America's Nations-Only Summer Camp...**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Request 1: Aliens Named Tony Are Great For Helping You GTFO**

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

Tony the alien had known Amelia F. Jones for over fifty years.

Fifty long, glorious, adventure-filled years of friendship and shenanigans.

They had done pretty much everything together; flying around the solar system in Tony's ship, busting each other out of various Turkish prisons, creating the perfect margarita mix, and let's not forget drawing spray-paint ponies on the buildings of Area 51.

Overall, it had been a very good run, for both of them.

And right then, they were standing on Japan's front lawn, dressed to the nines in bright yellow jumpsuits and purple afros with matching tennis rackets strapped to their backs.

Japan sighed, long and slow, setting down his hedge trimmers and getting to his feet. He really should have been expecting this. It had been well over a month since America had come around demanding his help with some ill-advised adventure, so it was only a matter of time before something like this occurred yet again. Yet Japan couldn't help but wonder why it was always HIM who got dragged into all the girl's illegal activity and not some other small peaceful nation like Lithuania.

He was getting too old for this.

Even now, the asian man rubbed his back, remembering the acid burns from their last cross-country scandal, which involved newts, a frying pan, and a conspiracy theory in which all of the land-locked nations were secretly planning to destroy the world's supply of aerosol sprays and cigarette lighters.

(Which turned out to be America's way of saying she wanted to make homemade flame-throwers but whatever)

And now, it looked as if America was once again on the warpath towards a completely fake threat that apparently needed her undivided attention.

And by extension, JAPAN's undivided attention.

Looking up, the island nation saw that Tony's ship was hovering a few meters above his house, so he knew that he had no hope of escape. He sighed again, mentally preparing himself for whatever America had planned.

Said nation took a step forward and held out her hand.

"Join us, Kiku." She whispered.

And Japan, not for the first time in his life, sighed in resignation and shuffled into his house to fetch his wire cutters and flash grenades.

"Fucking bitch."

"Yeah, he's a swell guy, ai'nt he, dude?"

* * *

Japan picked at his afro and looked around Tony's ship, marveling at how someone could fit so much Walking Dead merchandise into so little a space as an illegal alien aircraft.

Said alien and America were huddled over a set of blueprints in the corner.

"And then, we beat them over the head and take back chickens!"

"Shit fuck bitch."

"No, we are not allowed to flood their houses with soy sauce. Last time we did that Japan couldn't control himself and made enough rice to put the whole town into a year-long food coma."

Japan blushed, but said nothing.

"Fucking shit. Limey bitch fuck?"

"Yeah, we'll hit the U.K. But I gotta say, Nando's is friggin' sweet, so we'll let them keep their chickens."

"Shit."

Japan didn't even want to know what they were talking about. From what he could gather, it involved the wide-scale stealing of fowl and using them to create some new form of clean energy.

Or something.

You, know, like that.

Just then, the ship came to a lurching halt, sending Japan head-first into a picture of Daryl Dixon looking hot (so just a picture of Daryl Dixon).

"Alright, we're here!" America shouted, clamoring to her feet. "C'mon, Japan, we've gotta pick up our fourth musketeer! He's a little green on how we do things, so be nice and don't look him directly in the eye."

Japan tilted his head in confusion. "Wait a moment, America-san. Fourth? Are you sure you want to involve someone else in our... activity?"

America nodded and grinned. "Of course I'm sure! He told me he wanted to spend more time with me outside of meetings, and I couldn't think of anything better than our all our hero-ing and shit."

Japan was suddenly curious. "Alright. Who is it? Another country?"

"You'll see in a sec. Beam me down, Tony!" Tony flashed the girl a thumbs-up and pressed a button on the control panel, causing America to be illuminated in a sudden blue light and then fizzle out like a T.V turning off. The alien then turned to look at Japan.

"_I hope you do not mind that we have invited another person to join us without your consent, Mr. Japan." _The alien said in perfect japanese. "_Amelia gets so excited and I just couldn't bear to stop her. You know how it is."_

Japan nodded with a soft smile. "Hai, Tony-san. It is like kicking a really cute puppy. If that puppy were always on crack, I mean." Tony nodded back and then turned to fiddle with the ship's controls some more. Japan always liked talking to Tony. The alien was surprisingly polite despite his filthy mouth, and never failed to help Japan recover from most of the mental scarring that inevitably occurred with every "quest" America dragged him into.

He was cool like that.

And he made really good finger sandwiches.

Go figure.

America's voice then came on over the intercom, telling Tony to "beam her and her bitching new sidekick up."

The alien did just that, and as the she-nation's form, accompanied by another, wavered back into the ship, Japan suddenly felt his mouth go dry.

Standing right behind America was none other than the Russian Federation himself, a creepy smile on his face and a tennis racket in his hand.

He, too, was already dressed for the occasion, purple wig and all.

"Why hello, Japan!" Russia greeted sweetly. "Is so nice to see you! You will be helping with the burning of things, da?"

Burning?

What?

America laughed and slapped Russia on the shoulder, an action which would have earned any other nation a one-way ticket to the depths of hell.

"No, dude, I already told you," she said, smiling widely. "The setting fire to stuff is NEXT week. This week is giant chicken electricity generator. Different, but still totally cool."

Russia nodded in understanding while Japan just gaped in disbelief. Partly because he now had to fit pre-meditated arson into his already busy schedule, and partly because it was fucking AMERICA AND RUSSIA, laughing and getting along as though there wasn't half a century of bad blood and almost nuclear war between them!

The island nation felt a bit sick.

Something was very wrong with the universe.

"I see," said Russia, walking over to Tony and giving him a bro-fist. "Well, that is too bad. Is okay, though, I can be patient."

"Latvia was seventeen seconds late with your coffee the other day and you cut off his arm and then sewed it back on with a rusty nail." Japan felt the need to point out.

Russia giggled. "I said CAN be patient. Not ALWAYS patient."

Japan sighed. He was beginning to get a headache. And his wig was really itchy.

"Alright guys, let's get moving! Those chickens aren't just going to kidnap themselves, you know!"

"You are right, Amerika. Let us be going, da?"

"... Fine. Please take us to wherever, Tony-san."

"Shit fuck."

Tony pressed a myriad of colorful buttons on the control panel, and just like that, the four "heroes" were off, breaking every speed limit and hitting every mailbox they passed until they were safely out of Russian airspace.

The nation himself settled down criss-cross beside America, who happily babbled on about her plans like a madman off his medication.

Japan was still reeling from the sight of the two sworn enemies acting... well... _friendly. _

It was so wrong.

And yet...

The way Russia was smiling and laughing... there was no animosity behind it. It was as if he actually ENJOYED being around America, and likewise, as if AMERICA enjoyed being around HIM.

Japan couldn't make heads or tails of it.

He felt Tony sit down on the floor beside him, and together they just observed the strange goings-on of the two nations across the way. The island nation wasn't listening to what they were saying so much as he was just watching the way they interacted, all the while growing more and more puzzled with what he was finding.

America said something and Russia blushed.

Wait what?

Blush? Was the pale demon-like Russian man even capable of such a thing?

Certainly not.

And yet there it was, as plain as day on his face. If Japan didn't know any better, he would have thought that Russia...

And America...

The two of them...

Together...

Japan felt something in him die a little at the realization.

"Oh my God."

Beside him, Tony, elbowed him, and when Japan looked, the little alien nodded, confirming his suspicions. The island nation's mouth hit the floor.

"Oh my God!" He said in a strangled whisper. "America-san... and Russia-san... Together!? How can this be!?"

"_I know." _Said Tony.

"But... but... they're... how can...?"

"_I KNOW. But it is. What do you think?" _

Japan's heart was beating about a million times a minute, and he gulped, trying to force down the sudden yet familiar urges he felt taking hold of him.

"I... I..."

"_Yes?" _

"I think... I think that..."

"_Do go on." _

Japan turned to his alien friend, his face aflame a a thousand doujin ideas swimming through his mind at once.

"I think that... I totally ship that!"

_"I thought you might. I do as well. They make a very cute pair, don't they?" _

"Yes! Yes they do! Tony-san, I am suddenly feeling the need to draw them doing bad things to one another, do you have a pen?"

Tony took out a pen and a sheet of paper from behind his back.

"_You know I do." _

And so, Japan set to drawing what he was sure would be his greatest doujinshi to date, his new favorite couple chatting obliviously across the room.

Later, when they arrived at Switzerland's house to steal his chickens and dodge bullets like they were part of the Matrix, Japan was still blushing like a giddy little school girl. If one listened closely, they could hear the subtle sound of him saying "I ship that. I ship that. I ship that," over and over and over again.

After all was said and done, every nation who was apart of America's latest scheme went home with a sense of great satisfaction. America and Russia because they were able to spend more time together, Japan and Tony because they were able to stalk/write fanfiction about their new best couple EVAR.

It was one of those days that no one, including the millions of stolen chickens, would soon forget.

And America's family had no idea that she and Russia were spending time together.

Yet.

**A/N: Alright, guys, thanks so much for reading! This chapter is dedicated to IrishMaid, who came up with the idea and asked me to write about it. I'm planning on doing a whole bunch of reader plotbunnies, so just keep 'em coming! I love hearing what you guys have to say and it really warms my heart that you want to be a part of the story. Also, I wanted to ask if you guys would like it if I put in a more serious chapter, you know, about some of the trials and tribulations of America's life. Make sure you leave reviews giving me your opinion. Once again, thanks for reading, and I'll se you next time. Until then! - Mikki**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 17: ****Welcome To Camp Run-For-Your-Life-America's-The-Counselor**

"Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises." - Pedro Calderon de la Barca

* * *

Apparently, there is a limit to the number of times you are allowed to stab your allies in the shin before your bosses make you go on a "nations-only trust building retreat."

Which is total bullcrap because everyone knows it's not a REAL World Conference until someone has to visit the hospital.

Nevertheless, at that exact moment, a "nations only trust building retreat" was precisely where a handful of the world's personified countries had found themselves. And it was in North Dakota.

Yes.

The one state you have to say with an accent no matter who you are or where you're from.

In the one and only United States of America.

Who, at that very moment, was standing before a group of very confused, very irritable nations.

She wore a plain white T-shirt with the words "counselor bitches" stamped across the front, along with a pair of blue short shorts and sneakers. Her short hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her wrists were completely obscured by an army of multicolored bracelets and henna tattoos. On her face was a grin so wide and terrifying that it could make the cheshire cat shit bricks with fear.

It also made those standing before her very nervous.

"Alright, ya'll, listen up!" America yelled, staring down at her new "campers" from her perch atop an old stump. "Welcome to Camp Weeping-Sores! The one hundred percent goddamn happiest place on Earth (other than Disney World)! I am your happy-go-lucky non-paid counselor, Amelia F. Jones. Here, you will learn a multitude of outdoor skills, people skills, cooking skills, and Christ help you if by the end of this week you don't know how to make a friendship bracelet. Everyone following me?"

Several heads nodded numbly while some were to shocked or to frightened to look up.

America grunted. "Good. Now, there are three rules for all campers of Camp Weeping-Sores, and you will remember them and adhere to them or else I'll do to you what I did to Korea after he cancelled my favorite drama. Am I understood?" Everyone nodded frantically, memories of charred genitals and eating through a straw coming to their minds. "Wonderful. Now, rule number one! Everyone has a buddy! Buddy-system rules people. You do not go anywhere on this property without a buddy. You eat with your buddy, you sleep with your buddy, you shit with your buddy, and if you do not respect the camp rules, you will DIE with your buddy. Clear?"

"Let go of me, Francis!"

"But she said we get to sleep with our buddies!"

"She didn't mean it like THAT!"

"Spain, I am going to give you ten seconds to release my hand before I make it into ricotta."

"Awwwww, but Lovi! We all need buddies, and I'm your BEST buddy! That and I don't want to get paired with Russia."

"I can have as many buddies as I wish, da?"

America cleared her throat and at once everyone fell silent.

"Good. You get the idea. Rule number two! No weapons, drugs, pornography or alcohol of any kind is allowed in the camp." There was a chorus of groans and swears. "C'mon now, people, this is a child-friendly environment. Now, cough up all your contraband and deposit it in a neat pile in front of the log. That means you, Canada. Don't think I can't see you and your forty four in the back row."

"M-maple..."

One by one the nations walked to the front and placed all their banned items in the surprisingly large pile.

Germany gave up twelve cans of beer and a luger.

Prussia was in tears as he set down his twin pistols and hidden porno mags.

The Italy brothers each gave up their brass knuckles and Romano took one last swig of his flask before it went too.

Russia looked heartbroken as he parted ways with six bottles of vodka and his precious lead pipe.

England and France each only had one bottle of their preferred alcohol on them, but they were both carrying concealed broadswords so those had to go.

Canada sighed as he set down his pistol and turned to leave.

"All of it, Mattie."

"H-heh heh, what do you mean, eh?"

"The stuff, Mattie. That goes too."

Canada reluctantly set down a rather large baggy of his preferred grass and stalked away in shame, mumbling, "nazis, man, you're fucking nazis."

The rest of the nations deposited similar stuff, save for China's wok which was "totes a weapon, yo" and Japan and Hungary's shared collection of highly M-rated doujinshi.

And then came Switzerland.

The number of loaded weapons he put forth into the pile was unspeakable, and not one person left that day without wondering, "Where the hell did he put all that!?"

But at last, the task was done, and America cleared her throat to get everyone's attention once more.

She smiled and put her hands on her hips.

"Great, now that that's over with, we come to the third and final rule of this camp. And that is, HAVE SOME FUCKING FUN! This is not a prison sentence, guys, this is mandatory bonding so that the World War Three we were all expecting and secretly hoping to happen, DOESN'T happen. Hopefully, you'll understand this after our week together is through, but until that time, your asses belong to me, and I expect you to have fun and follow the rules, or you KNOW what will happen to you. Got it? Good. Now," America suddenly ripped off her shirt, revealing the bright red one-piece bathing suit underneath. "It's time for swim checks. Everyone to the lake!"

* * *

The nations were led through a heavily wooded area until they reached the main part of the camp. It was a complex of about eleven or twelve cabins scattered roughly around a giant mess hall, with a proud American flag waving above the door.

America looked over her shoulder and smirked.

"It's a beaut, ain't it?" She said cheerfully. "Now, you all have three minutes to change before I dump you into the lake buck-ass nekked. Got it? Now Go!"

The nations scattered like bugs to their cabins, each marked with the flag of the countries who were staying there, and pulled on their suits as quickly as they could. France was a bit reluctant at first, as he quite enjoyed being naked far more than the average joe, but after a few smacks from Britain got his act together and complied.

In three minutes, every nation was lined up before America, many in swimsuits some would call too small for soo many reasons.

But hey, Europe.

It's cool.

"Alright, campers!" Cried America, fist-pumping the air. "Let's go swimming!"

"The awesome me has a bad feeling about this." Prussia whispered.

"You and me both, buddy." Canada said back.

America then led the crowd of scantily clad (attractive) men and women over the hill and towards the waiting lake, the nations grumbling all the while about how America got to be in charge because she had the cleanest track record when it came to stabbings.

(Liechtenstein may not look it but DAMN can she handle a prison shank)

After about two minutes of walking, they arrived.

"That's not a lake, it's pond!" Cried Britain. "We can't swim in there!"

America shot him a death glare. "You dissin' my lake, Britty Boy?" She said lowly, causing a cold shiver to run down then nations' spines.

Britain quickly shook his head. "N-no! Not at all! It's a beautiful lake, the best I've ever seen (please don't kill me slowly)!"

America smiled. "Good! Now, time for swim checks!"

"What're swim checks ve?" Asked Italy innocently as he clung in his speedo to a heavily blushing Germany.

"I'm glad you asked!" America put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. Across the lake, there came a mass of hissing and growling, and from the underbrush, emerged over a dozen long-nosed pointy-teethed alligators. They slipped into the water like shadows, their eyes murderous. Everyone blanched, knowing what was coming. "Alright, guys, this is swim checks. Before you are allowed to participate in any and all water activities, I have to make sure you lot know how to swim! And since we are all well over three hundred years old and so have been swimming longer than anyone has been alive, I've decided to make it more interesting by making you swim away from live alligators. You know, because I can."

Britain made a choked sound that was mimicked by everyone (except Russia and Belarus, who thought the reptiles looked "cute").

"You can't be serious aru! Lizards are for cooking, not swimming away from!" cried China.

"Oui! And stomach acid makes my hair frizz up!" Added France.

America gave them a deadpanned look and put her hands on her hips.

"You guys are so lame." She said. "And we're not moving from this spot until each and every one of you lame-os has braved the waters of death and survived. Now come on, off ya pop!" She gestured to the lake where several pairs of eyes were peering out from beneath the surface.

No one moved.

America sighed and crossed her arms. "Fine." She said. "First one to get in and out doesn't have to participate in sunrise yoga class. And you all KNOW how seriously I take my yoga."

There was a stampede of bodies as everyone raced for the water at once.

No one could handle doing yoga with America. After a long career of being forced to sit through meetings where all she did was stretch, this was evident.

"Yeah, that's the spirit!" Cried America as she watched the nations begin to frantically swim a lap around the lake. "Watch out for the - Damn, Italy, you sure can move when you're in danger can't you?"

"Verdammit Italy! Why can't you move this fast when you're not in retreat!?"

"My awesome leg! I'm going to kill you and kill you and kill you you damn lizard!"

"Prussia-san! Less talky more swimmy please!"

"Fuck! Spain! I'm using your body as a meat shield you bastard!"

"Nooooo! Don't abandon me mi tomate!"

*bang* "Hey, Switzerland! I said no guns!"

"America! I am going to have a serious talk with you after this about NOT TORTURING YOUR CAMPERS!"

"Swim Angleterre, swim! Matthieu is already far ahead of us!"

"They are so cute."

"Nat, I know they're awesome, but the point of this exercise is to swim AWAY from the alligators. Not to cuddle them. C'mon, ya'll, almost there!"

"Oh my God! The part of lake where Russia is just froze over! It's fucking JULY!"

"Mattie, eyes on the prize. You are getting the shit bitten out of you by those gators."

"I CAN SEE THAT, EH!"

After a good five minutes of frantic swimming, biting, bleeding, and hissing from both humanoids and reptiles, the swim checks were finally over, and everyone was reduced to a shivery panting mass on the shore of the lake.

And who was standing victorious over all of them?

It was Lithuania.

"I can't go back to sunrise yoga with Miss America." He said, taking deep breaths and he tried to stop a bite on his arm from bleeding. "I did my time. Over fifty fucking years of it. It's your guys' turn."

Russia just smiled his creepy little smile as the ice over part of the lake melted.

America grinned.

"Good job, campers!" She said happily. "I'm pleased to say that you have all passed your swim checks! Now, if you'll follow me, let's go put some clothes on and have some dinner. Then we'll sing songs and roast smores! It'll be awesome!"

Britain coughed and wiped his sopping hair out of his eyes. "I'm going to kill her."

"Me too." Came the instantaneous reply from everyone gathered.

Excpet for Russia who simply smiled and followed his pretty American back to the main camp.

* * *

"This isn't food." Said Romano in disgust, poking the _thing _on his plate with a fork. "This isn't even cardboard dressed up as food."

"I think it's looking at me aru." Said China. His plate winked at him and he had to cover his mouth to keep from puking. "Yep. Definitely looking at me aru."

Just then Japan convulsed, coughing and sputtering while France pounded on his back to get him to breathe. He coughed up what appeared to be a wad of snakeskin along with several drops of blood.

"Don't eat it! Jesus man, do you want to live!?" Germany scolded as he comforted a distraught Italy.

"Food ve. I n-need... real food... pastaaaaa..."

"I am sorry, Germany-san." Said Japan between coughs. "I was just so hungry. I think I just ate cow hooves disguised as meat."

The nations each stared at their plates with a mixture of fear and disgust, the brownish gray and slightly animated substance looking back up at them.

Literally.

With eyes.

Britain, on the other hand, was happily chowing down. "I don't see what you lot are on about. I think this cuisine is quite delectable."

France covered his eyes and began to cry while Canada put a comforting arm around his shoulder. "It's okay, Papa. He's been lost to us for quite some time."

Just then, America burst into the mess hall wearing a bright orange sweatshirt with the words "Camp Weeping-Sores" emblazoned on the front. She laughed and put her hands on her hips.

"Alright, people, dinner's over!" She called, causing a wave of relived sighs to wash over the room. "Time for bed. Please exit the hall in an orderly fashion and make your way to your cabins. Don't forget about sunrise yoga! You'll need your strength!"

"Not me, fuckers!"

"Like, shut up Liet!"

"Poland, when you'd get here, dude?"

"I've, like, been here the whole time! That's, like, totally rude America!"

**Later, in the cabins... **

"It smells like death in here, guys." Canada whispered, trying desperately to get comfortable in his sleeping bag.

"Sorry, comrade, that is me." Said Russia with a giggle.

"Oh God."

"Will you two bloody shut up!" Britain whisper-screamed. "I don't know whose idea it was to put the allies together in one room again, but it certainly wasn't anyone sane! Francis Bonnefoy if I feel tongue in the middle of the night your are dead, do you hear me? Dead."

"Oui, mon cher."

"Ai ya! Go the fuck to sleep aru!"

And with that, there was peace among the cabins of camp weeping sores.

Until the morning sun peaked its little bastard head over the horizon.

* * *

The entire camp was awoken to the loud sound of a bugle playing over the intercom, causing several nations to startle awake and fall out of their bunks in a comedic style.

America, the bitch, was wide awake, and ran amongst the groups shouting for everyone to wake up and get ready for yoga.

The thought of the female nations and the slightly feminine ones in yoga pants was what got everyone's butt in gear.

America lead her campers to the edge of the lake, where the first vibrant orange rays of the sun sparkled over the surface of the water, giving it an ethereal quality.

"Okay campers, time for yoga! Now, I know some of you are probably new to this, so just watch and learn." She set down her yoga mat and leaned forward with her butt in the air and her palms on the ground. "This is called downward dog. Everyone, do it with me."

The nations did as they were told, some grumbling about the ungodly hour and some trying to cover up the fact that they were staring at America's butt.

And so it went, stretch after stretch, until the weaker bodies among the group were crying out for mercy, namely Britain and Italy.

*strecth*

"This one hurts."

*crack*

"This one hurts."

*bend*

"This one REALLY hurts."

"Hey, sissy marys!" America called with a scowl. "Quit your bitching and just get it done! We've got arts and crafts today and I don't want to be late!"

"ARRGH! I swear, where did I go WRONG?"

* * *

"You're not doing it right!" America said with an exasperated sigh. "God, you've managed to run the most powerful empires the world has ever known and yet you can't do something as simple as make a friendship bracelet?"

Britain blushed hotly while France sniggered from across the arts and crafts table. All around them, nations were trying (and failing) to get the hang of weaving America's so-called "friendship bracelets", all the while complaining about how they didn't have any friends they wanted to give them to. America was not pleased by this, and so decreed that if anyone failed to make a bracelet and give to someone by the end of the afternoon, they would be forced to repeat their swim checks alone and without any clothes on.

"Look, Su-san, I did it!" Said Finland, triumphantly holding up his finished work for the taller man to inspect.

"Mmm. Looks good." Said Sweden. "Better'n mine." He held up a blue knot and Finland laughed nervously.

"It's fine, really! Look, you can't even tell you made a mistake."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah! Just look at Denmark's, he set his on fire."

"HOW DID THIS EVEN HAPPEN!?"

America strolled by the group and nodded, satisfied with their progress. She then made her rounds through the Baltics, the Asians, and the Europeans with massive god-complexes. Everyone seemed to be faring rather well.

Except for Canada for some reason.

"Fuck, just thread already!" He said in exasperation as he saw his little sister approaching. "Dammit, this shouldn't be this hard. Fucking hell, Matthew Williams, you've been through two World Wars and countless smaller ones and THIS is the best you can do when it comes to handicrafts!?"

"How's it coming, Mattie?" America said cheerfully, leaning over the Canadian's shoulder.

"O-oh, hi Amelia! It's going great, just great! No problems here, nope, not at all!" He fumbled to hide the wad of red and white thread before America could see it, but unfortunately, she did.

"Doesn't look like it." The she-nation said, crossing her arms. "You'd better pick up the pace, Matt, else you'll be doing the thing."

"The thing?"

"The thing."

"You wanna maybe NOT make me do the thing?"

America leaned in close, a no-nonsense expression on her face. "You're doing the thing. Ain't nobody gets out of the thing unless their sick or dead. And you, my maple-loving friend, are neither."

Canada sighed deeply and resigned himself to his work, much to America's satisfaction.

That night he swam naked from a horde of hungry alligators as his "friends" watched from the safety of the shore.

* * *

**One Week, Three Trust-Building Exercises Gone Horribly Wrong, and Seven Different Guns Confiscated From Switzerland Later... **

"Well guys, here we are." America said as she stood for the last time before her campers, a tear in her eye. "We've done what we were sent here to do. We've made it a whole week without trying to kill each other, which is exactly what our bosses wanted. I can't even begin to tell you all how proud I am. Or how amazed I am that none of you died from food poisoning and that the Italies managed to go a week without eating."

"Pasta... I need... pasta... ve..."

"Someone get me an alfredo stat!"

America sighed and wiped her eyes.

"I know that none of you really like each other, what with the centuries of bloodshed and trying to sleep with each other's rulers and all, but I'm so glad that we were able to put all of that aside for one week and just be... well... FRIENDS."

America stepped forward and gave a proud salute.

"Godspeed, fellows. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

"Wait, what?" Said Canada.

"Fuck yeah, the hell is over!" Someone cried, followed by a chorus of cheers.

Over the course of the next few hours, cars from the various embassies arrived to pick up their disheveled and slightly mentally scarred countries, until at last, only America, Canada, and Russia were left.

"That was much fun, da?" Said Russia, sitting a LITTLE too close to America for Canada's liking. "I have not killed that many animals since my last birthday party."

"Yeah, it was great, wasn't it?" America said, scooting, to Canada's horror, _closer _to Russia as she talked. "I'll bet those scars won't heal for at least another ten years. At LEAST."

Russia giggled, and the two just sat in comfortable silence, watching as the sun set over the lake for the last time.

After awhile, Russia too was picked up, and the North American Twins were left alone to bask in the dying rays of sunlight.

America sighed in what could be called a dreamy manner.

"He's something, isn't he?" She said, leaning her hand against her chin.

Canada blanched. "Who's that?" He said cautiously.

"Russia. He's just... really great, you know?"

Rage.

"No. No I don't know. I for one think he's a frozen hunk of yeti flesh in danger of getting a sunburn!"

America giggled and slung an arm around her brother's shoulders.

"Hate to break it to you, bro, but so are you."

Canada blushed and turned away. "N-not true, eh!"

America's laughter echoed through the trees until it, along with the light, finally drifted away into the warm North Dakota night.

**Chapter Next: Yankee Doodle Got Annoying After The First Two Times Of Singing It**

**A/N: Hey guys! Holy Shit. No. No Way. No, those reviews and follows and favorites can NOT be for me. This is insane! You guys are so great, you don't even know. Thank you so much for all of the support, and I really hope you like this chapter, as it is the longest one yet. Please continue to review to tell me what you think, and just know that I would give each and every one of you a kidney if you needed one. Until then! - Mikki**


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 18: Everything Can Be Set To The Tune Of Yankee Doodle. Everything. **

"Let's sing our way out of this." - Isabel Fraire

* * *

"Ve, America, what are you singing?" Italy asked one day at the end of yet another G8 Meeting in Tokyo, Japan.

"Huh?" Said America, and then she smiled. "Oh, I was just singing the Presidents Song. It's really fun, you should try it!"

Italy tilted his head in confusion. "Presidents Song, ve," he said. "But I don't know all of your Presidents, America! How can I sing the song if I don't know any of the dead white guys I'm singing about?"

"Hey, we fixed the all-white guys thing a while ago, dude," America said with a frown. "And besides, not knowing the American Presidents is what the song is FOR. It's like, the gospel for lazy kids trying to squeeze a B out of first year American History (*cough* the author of this story*cough*)." When Italy still looked confused, America sighed and out her hands on her hips.

"It's not that hard, Feli, I promise." Italy thought for a moment, and then he smiled his signature smile and nodded his head.

"Okay, Amelia! I trust you! Just don't set my pants on fire like you did the last time I trusted you!"

From across the room, Germany suddenly became very uncomfortable, while the other nations were suddenly tuning in to the song-lesson that was about to occur.

America nodded and smirked. "Good man. Okay, does everyone know the tune to yankee doodle?" She asked everyone in the room, suddenly including them for some reason. The other nations save for Britain, France, and Canada all nodded dumbly.

Britain began to sweat. "That song haunts my nightmares, girl." He said slowly. "There's no way in HELL I would forget it."

France and Canada nodded their agreement, both having seen the Continental Army in action and knowing full-well what the simple tune of yankee doodled signified.

"Okay." America said, satisfied. "Now, the song is really simple. All you have to do is remember the lyrics and the fact that I've only had 44 prezzies thus far. Everyone got it?" Another round of cautious nodding. "Cool beans. Alright, here goes. (insert tune of yankee doodle here) Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Adams, Jackson." America paused and looked around. "Everyone got that? Sing it back to me."

Some of the nations, namely Japan, blushed, but everyone complied.

"Good job, dudes. On to the next part! Van Buren, Harrison, Tyler, Polk, Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce, Buchanan, Lincoln. Everybody!"

America kept going like that until at last they reached the end of the song and thus the end of the presidents.

The she-nation grinned widely at the worn-looking faces of her companions. "You guys want to try it all together now?"

"No."

"Shut up, Iggy."

The nations reluctantly nodded.

"Alright, here goes."

"_Washington, Adams,_

_Jefferson, Madison,_

_Monroe, Adams, _

_Jackson, Van Buren,_

_Harrison, Tyler,_

_Polk, Taylor,_

_Fillmore, Pierce,_

_Buchanan, Lincoln,  
_

_Johnson, Grant, _

_Hayes, Garfield, _

_Arthur (*winks at Britain*) Cleveland, _

_Harrison, Cleveland,_

_Mckinley, Roosevelt, _

_Taft, Wilson, _

_Harding, Coolidge, _

_Hoover, Roosevelt, _

_Trumen, Eisenhower, _

_Kennedy, Johnson, _

_Nixon, Ford, _

_Carter, Reagan, _

_Bush, Clinton, _

_Bush, And Obama, he's the current president, _

_And it might just be you some day!" _

Britain snorted. "The end part of that song is utterly ridiculous!" He said, scowling and crossing his arms. "There is no way that anyone in this room could ever become one of your silly leaders, America, so you should have just left that part out."

America frowned. "Andrew Jackson killed over sixteen people. Legally. And William Howard Taft was so fat that he could crush a small pony to death with his weight." Britain paled and America smirked. "Not so silly now, eh, queeny-boy?"

"You've had quite a few leaders, haven't you, America-san?" Said Japan from across the table where everyone sat. "If I may ask, who was your favorite?"

Everyone stared at America and she blushed.

Russia found this incredibly cute.

"W-well," she began, scratching the back of her head nervously. "I guess... if I had to choose... my favorite president would have to be... Franky!" America smiled and leaned back in her chair, resting her combat boots on the table and giving everyone across from her a nice view of her long slender legs in her short business skirt.

Japan just about died.

Russia glared.

"Wait a minute, she-bastard," said Romano, crossing his arms and frowning. "I just spent ten minuets learning your useless fucking song, and there wasn't any 'Franky' guy anywhere in it, so what gives?"

"Yeah, Amelia, who're you talking about, eh?" Said Canada, whom everyone was accidentally ignoring.

America laughed and reached into her jacket pocket. She took out what appeared to be her wallet, though one could hardly tell form the amount of flashy stickers and sharpie marks all over it, and upon opening it pulled out a small black-and-white photograph. She held it up proudly for all to see.

It was a picture of her and Franklin D. Roosevelt standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial.

"This is Franky!" America said happily, passing the picture to Italy for him to look at. "President Franklin D. Roosevelt. I'd have to say out of all the dudes I've had the pleasure of knowing, HE'S my fave. He saw me through a lot of shit, you know? Four fucking terms of it." The G8 gaped as America's expression took on a softer, more far-away look.

"It takes a special kind of person to do what he did for me." She said softly, and everyone knew to what she was referring, even if no one said it out loud. The war was a mark on them all."That picture was taken in 1942. Three days before my boys and I shipped out for Europe. D-Day. But you guys already know that."

The room was suddenly very still and very silent.

Britain bit his lip and rubbed the scars over his heart where London once burned bright as the sun.

For everyone, the second World War was a highly taboo subject. Too many painful memories. Too much of when being the personification of a nation was most difficult.

Just like that, a quiet tear ran down Italy's cheek as he handed the picture back to a mute America, lost in her thoughts.

Images of a beach flooded with soldiers, of tanks and artillery exploding, of bodies and blood and _death_, came unwillingly to everyone's mind. Germany's eyes turned dark, and his fists clenched so tightly you could almost hear bones snap.

For a moment, everyone felt wounds that weren't quite healed bubble up to the surface, and a moment of raw grief passed over the room like a shadow.

Every single person there had lost someone in that war.

For most of them, it was a many someones.

America slipped the photo back into her wallet and then returned it to her pocket.

She closed her eyes and smelled the fire.

_Bombs fell and planes exploded and bullets flew and oh God I WANT TO GO HOME! _

"Franky didn't want me to go, you know?" She said quietly, breaking the spell of silence. "He thought I should stay in Washington. Said that's where I was most needed. Such bullshit that was." She opened her eyes and smiled softly at the shaking blond form to her left. "I shipped out, and I didn't regret it for a minute. Still don't in fact." Her smile grew wider and France moved a little closer to Britain, who didn't move to stop him. "My family needed me."

America reached out and took Germany's hand in her own.

The man looked up at her with an unforgiving guilt, like a storm, raging behind his icy blue eyes.

Amelia ran her thumb across Ludwig's palm.

"My family needed me." She said again, giving the German's hand a soft squeeze. "I don't regret it for a minute."

**Chapter Next: Roses Are Red, Vodka Is Clear, Roses Smell Really Great... And I'm Too Drunk To Remember Where I Was Going With This. **


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 19: A Commie By Any Other Name Would Still Reek Of Vodka**

"Obviously, if I was serious about having a relationship with someone long-term, the last people I would introduce him to would be my family." - Chelsea Handler

* * *

_So she likes roses, does she? _Russia thought as he watched America walk across the White House lawn. _I'll keep that in mind. _

The Russian man leaned back against the bark of the tree he was sitting in, taking a swig from his perpetual vodka flask. He adjusted his binoculars and sighed.

He was on day thirteen of what he called the "Cold War Reenactment Game", which was basically him just going around sitting in trees and watching America like a hella creepy Justin Beiber fan.

Already he had learned so many new and wonderful things about his precious Amelia. Things that had previously been unknown to him.

What she ate for breakfast every morning.

Her favorite cuss words to use when watching a football game on T.V.

How many hours she could marathon cat videos on youtube without taking a break. The record was ten.

The fact that a human body could hold six pounds on nacho cheese without exploding into chunks.

So many wonderful things.

Russia also learned about America's routine, something that others would deem serial-killer-ish, but anyone who knew the man personally would say was an act of pure admiration and a slightly above legal blood alcohol level.

Stalking was Russia's way of saying "I don't want to rip of your head and mount it on a stake and then soak in your blood to summon the lord Satan."

Or in common terms, "I really want to go out with you but I'm too much of a pussy to ask and so I've resorted to peering at you from the tops of trees."

Something like that.

Yeah.

Moving on.

America woke up at eight a.m on weekdays with the vigor of a corpse, almost as though she was rising from the dead. She groaned and moaned and swore when she bumped into things, and occasionally fell down the stairs and landed in a pile of body parts at the bottom.

She ate food, usually sugared cereals with enough calories in them to explode the pancreas of a grizzly bear, and then she would trudge back upstairs to clothe herself in something other than pajamas with pictures of Jerry Seinfeld's face on them.

She then got into her car, a 1946 T-Bird (bad-assery incarnate), and grabbed a cup of Starbucks on her way to work (a hazelnut machiatto with the foam in the shape of a cat because duh), then proceeding to spend the rest of the workday upon arriving at the White House bitching to her boss about anything and everything that came into her mind.

Global Warming.

Chicken enchiladas.

The series finale of "Dexter."

At one point Russia observed the man looking forlornly out the window of his office, as if wishing he could somehow throw himself out of it and be done with everything stressful (America) in his life.

But alas, he never did.

And so the week would pass.

And then came friday.

Weekends were a buttload more fun watching America, Russia soon found out.

After work on friday, she would instantly hop in her "sick ride" and drive to the nearest insanely shady bar. You know, the kind that's filled with buff biker dudes who smoke and tell dirty jokes and are secretly taping The Biggest Loser on their dish back home because yeah it's not just for old overweight women looking to feel better about themselves get over it.

You know, the usual.

Once there, America would order the strongest thing on the menu, and proceed to get drunk off her ass and challenge every rough and tumble son of a bitch she met to an arm wrestling contest, which she always won.

Russia found the whole thing utterly adorable in comparison to his need to strip things of their skin when he was drunk.

America slept in till one on saturdays, nursing her friday hangover.

She spent sunday debating going to some form of religious service, but then said "nah, J-bob and I are cool," and blew it off in favor of a bubble bath (insert Russia making the "me gusta" face here) and a fuck ton more sleep.

And that was how her life went.

And Russia, despite everything, found himself wanting so badly to be a part of it.

He remembered Christmas, and then New Years, and that same hope flickered up in his icy chest like a brilliant flame.

Warm lips.

The smell of sweat and food and her strawberry shampoo.

Russia wanted it so badly.

But he didn't know what to do about it, which was the fucking saddest thing in the world considering he had had literally HUNDREDS OF YEARS OF TRAINING when it came to speaking to and seducing women.

Not that Russia could ever seduce America, it was more the other way around.

Currently, Russia was sitting a couple hundred yards away from the front of the White House in a tree with his binoculars fastened to his face. He watched as America, having been banished from the Oval Office due to some complications with the Secretary of War and a game of battleship, strolled along the side of the garden, smelling the flowers as she went and just looking so... so... CUTE that Russia couldn't fight the blush that overtook his cheeks.

He saw that she like the roses most of all.

Thinking about it, Russia thought that it made sense. Roses were America's national flower, and so, in extension, her favorite flower. Russia preferred sunflowers himself, but he couldn't deny the classic romanticism of the simple rose, and how beautiful America looked surrounded by them. She looked so at peace, so... not like her normal crack-addict-like self, that it almost made Russia feel bad for stalking her and invading what appeared to be a very private moment.

Almost.

_She likes roses, huh? _Russia thought dreamily. _I wonder if she would like it if I got her some as a present? _And then it clicked.

That was perfect!

What better way to ask out a girl than to bribe her with pretty material things that smell nice and die if you do not water them?

If this didn't get America to go out with him, nothing short of wrapping Latvia in gift wrap and giving him to her as a tribute would (which was something that had happened before but hadn't really worked because the Catholic church was steering away from the whole "little boys" thing).

All that was left was for Russia to figure out a time and place to give them to her. His pulse quickened.

How was he supposed to give her a romantic gift? Ever since the russian had first realized that he might in fact be falling total disney princess style in love with America he hadn't been able to so much as look her in the eye without blushing and sprinting from the room in embarrassment.

He was kinda being a bitch.

_Okay, _Russia thought, _If I cannot give the flowers to her directly, than I will simply have to leave them somewhere that she will see them and automatically know that it was me! But where could that be...? _He stroked his chin and longed for the days of his sexy beardy face man days, thinking hard. And then a metaphorical light bulb flipped on in his head.

Her house!

If Russia could just somehow break into America's house then he could leave the roses there for her to find, and plus, who but him had either the skill or the balls to do such a thing? It just made sense.

The next day, Russia knew that America would be out of town visiting her Aunt Helen.

You know, that one really crazy aunt that everyone has but doesn't talk about because they're afraid one day she'll snap and go on a cross country killing spree. In reality, she was just a former assistant of America's who was currently being watched by the Department of Homeland Security for carrying a butter knife onto an airplane.

She owned cats.

America liked cats.

Russia resolved that tomorrow would be the day he would enact his little surprise.

Security at America's house was nothing a little napalm and dental floss couldn't fix anyway.

* * *

True to his word, upon the morn Russia pulled up to America's house in a stolen pick up truck with the bed filled to the brim with vibrant red roses. The first thing he thought when the home came into view was DAMN it was huge. The elaborate victorian structure was painted white and had an enormous front porch. It was at least three stories high, and gave an air of nobility but at the same time a sense that a lot of comfort food had been consumed on its grounds. It was big enough for like, a hundred people to live in.

It made Russia sad to think that America lived here all alone.

Russia let out a shaky breath of anticipation and stepped out of the truck. First things first, he needed to bust in.

His eyes wandered around the front of the house and found what he was looking for.

Cameras, with lazar beam attachments for blasting anyone the lens identified as non-American. Russia was glad that today was the day he had decided to wear his Captain America T-Shirt and skinny jeans, because either the cameras hadn't picked him up or they had classified him as just another hipster going through life trying to be something that everyone thinks is kinda douche-y.

Still, better to be safe than sorry.

Russia did a few gravity-defying ninja moves and skillfully cut the power wires to each of the cameras he found. Being shot in the face by a lazar was NOT how this day was going to go down.

After he was satisfied that no threat remained, he went on to picking the lock on the front door and dodging the Home Alone style paint can that came swinging down at him once the door was open.

And just like that, he was in.

Only to come face to face with Tony, America's sexually ambiguous and eternal house guest who didn't like strangers and had 24/7 access to large weaponry. Russia became visiably nervous.

"H-hello Mr. Tony." Russia stammered, a twitching smile on his face. "I assure you, this is not what it looks like! This is in no way like the time I planted explosives in America's bathroom and blew up her expensive hair products!"

Tony just looked at him, expression unreadable.

They stood like that, staring at one another, for a good ten minutes before Tony finally said, in spotless Russian.

"It's about time, motherfucker."

Russia thought he hadn't heard him right.

"Excuse me?" He said timidly.

"I said it's about time, you motherfucking yeti man." Tony replied. "I've been waiting for you to make a move on Amelia for like, a huge-ass amount of time, asshole. And frankly, she has, too."

Russia felt his face burn. His gaze drifted to his feet and he hid his nose in his scarf in embarrassment. "Was I really that obvious?" He half-whispered.

Tony nodded. "Hell yeah you were, bitch-face. But I see by your payload over there that you finally decided to grow a pair and do something other than stalk my girl everywhere she goes."

"You knew about that?"

"I'm an alien. I know everything about everyone and everything. Space-technology and shit."

"Ah."

Tony let out what must have been a sigh despite the fact he had no mouth.

"That's a butt-ton of flowers you got there. You should probably bring them in before the whale gets to them. He has this thing about flowers. Don't ask."

Russia didn't, but he still wondered how the hell a what was able to maneuver on land. He nodded and blushed some more before turning and walking out to his truck. Over the course of a couple hours, he hauled in over a thousand roses, placing them strategically everywhere around America's home. Visions of when she would come home and see them danced through his head, some scenes where she was overjoyed, others where she chased him out with a shotgun.

At last, he was done, Tony having sat back the whole time and providing constructive criticism where it was due.

He looked over his work.

It was beautiful.

The whole front room was like a sea of luscious red, and it smelled like that feeling of waking up on a monday morning and realizing you didn't have any school that day.

Like an aaaahhhhhh fuck yes.

"It is done." Said Russia, wiping his brow and smiling in satisfaction. "I am hoping that she likes it."

"She will." Tony said, coming up behind him and placing a hand on Russia's much taller than him shoulder. "I promise. Now, to hide here until she gets back."

Russia turned to face him. "Wait, what?" His face lit up. "I cannot be here when she comes home, comrade! That is the whole point of doing- this!" He gestured frantically to the room around them.

Tony fixed him with a red-eyed look. "Stop being a pussy, man. We're hiding and that's final." And before Russia could utter a single word of protest, he was roughly dragged by the arm over to a closet that had a nice view of the the room through wooden paneling.

There, he and Tony waited in dead silence for hours, waiting with baited breath for America to return home.

And when she did, Russia's breath caught in his throat.

She through open the door unceremoniously, clearly in the middle of some psychotic rant, only to have both the words and the wind suddenly knocked out of her at the sight of her living room. Her blue eyes widened in what Russia hoped was wonder, and he pressed a hand to his chest to still the beating of his heart.

America took a step forward and shut the door softly behind her. She walked over the nearest vase of roses and reached out to touch the petals, her expression unreadable. For one horrible moment, Russia thought he had fucked up. That she really DIDN'T like the roses and now she hated him and there was absolutely no chance in hell of her ever saying yes to -

"Beautiful..." America whispered to herself. She smiled softly and leaned in to smell the flowers, cupping the bud in her hands as though it were the most precious thing in the world. "It's so beautiful." She then walked around the room for a little while, silently admiring all the roses and brushing her fingers gently across the petals.

She looked so happy.

Before Russia could stop himself, he let out a tiny relived breath, which caused America's head to spin and her eyes to zero in on the closet where he and Tony were hiding.

Shit.

But instead of storming over and ripping the door off its hinges like Russia expected her to, she simply smiled softly and walked over calmly.

"You can come out." She said, playfulness in her voice. "I know you're there."

Russia blushed heavily, and before he could do anything, Tony shoved him into the door so that he stumbled right into America's waiting arms. He steadied himself on her arm and their eyes met.

He was once again captured by how blue hers were, like the ocean, like the sky, like everything blue in the world rolled into one. His heart raced faster.

Then he realized where he was.

"Ah! I am so sorry, I did not mean to -"

"Thank you." America said softly, cutting him off. She wrapped her arms around his chest and pulled him into a warm hug. "Thank you so much."

Russia felt like he was about to have a heart attack, but you know, the good kind. He folded his arms around her smaller frame and breathed in her scent, strawberries and and roses and light.

"You are welcome." He said into her hair. "Does this mean that you would consider letting me take you out on a date?"

America pulled away, and Russia thought frantically that he had done something wrong before she reached up, grabbed his scarf and pulled him into a full-mouthed kiss.

A long, slow, wonderful kiss that sent Russia's brain to that place where men's brains go to die.

When she drew back, America was wearing her widest grin, a light blush on her cheeks. "Of course, you idiot!" She said. "I've been waiting for you to ask me that for, like, ever! Glad you finally got off your butt and did it, I was losing hope."

Russia smiled back at her and it was like the sun.

"Thank you." He said.

America winked.

"No, Ivan. Thank YOU."

And they both leaned in for another kiss.

Completely oblivious to the fact that Tony was snapping quiet pictures in the background.

**Chapter Next: Where The Demons Hide **

**A/N: Whew! Another chapter for the masses to love/hate! I'm really happy with how this one turned out, and I hope all you guys are too. Once again, I want to thank all y'all for being with me through all of this and helping me battle with terrible writer's block. Make sure to leave reviews telling what you think. Until then! - Mikki **


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 20: Mother of America**

"I had seen birth and death but had thought they were different." - T.S Eliot

* * *

The first time Amelia saw someone die she was young, no older than three in human years though her body was still that of an infant's.

The woman on the cot was covered from head to toe in oozing white spots, and blood leaked from her lips like paint spilling down a canvas. She was moaning and crying, and her children wailed at her bedside about how she wasn't allowed to die and how the Great Spirit would save her. The medicine man hung his head and began to sing.

And America, little innocent America, watched from behind the flap of the tent as the woman drew her last gasping breath, and then was eternally silent.

It was death, and the girl who would someday be the strongest of her kind didn't understand it, though much later she would.

The year was 1655, and smallpox raged across the land like a great flame that burned the life from the bodies of everything it touched. Her people died by the thousands, unseen and suffering from Europe's scourge.

And through it all, America wondered why everywhere she looked, people who she knew, who she felt a deep connection with, were lying down in their homes and never getting up again.

The village where she first came into the world, where her mother whose arms were soft and whose hair smelled like wildflowers sang softly to her and her brother, was wiped out in less than three years.

Mother was devastated.

For the newborn twin nations, Mother was someone who was safe, someone who protected them from the world and held them when lightening split the sky and they trembled in fear.

It frightened them to see tears streaming down her beautiful face.

It was the first and last time they would ever see her cry.

After the death of the village, the three nations became wanderers, steering clear of settlements both native and otherwise and roaming the wilderness. Later, the infant nations would realize that this was because Mother didn't want them to see what was happening to their people, how they were suffering and bleeding and dying all around them as more and more foreigners landed upon their shores.

Again, Amelia didn't understand.

But she would.

Mother began to get weaker.

Sometimes, she would sleep all day and all night, shivering against the ground and leaving her children to fend for themselves huddling together for warmth. Mother's hair lost its black luster, and her once oaken skin turned pale and yellow. She lost the strength to carry her babies in her arms, and great heaving coughs racked her body constantly, sending speckles of blood onto the grass and into her withering hands.

It went on like this until all Amelia could think about was the woman in the cot who laid down and never got up again. She told herself that Mother was too strong, that she could never succumb to the "eternal sleep" as it had been explained to her.

She drew strength from Matthew who was wise beyond his years and who held her tight like Mother no longer could and sang her old songs and spoke to her in the language of their people.

One day, Mother collapsed.

The twins were roughly the size of two-year olds despite the fact that they had traveled for well over ten years. They were in the mountains at night when it happened, the horizon a blue blanket across the curve of the earth, and the children cried out in shock and fear as the one who represented their entire world fell to the ground and didn't get up again.

The stars twinkled but it looked like they were weeping.

"Mother!" Amelia and Matthew both cried, rushing to the woman's side. "Are you alright? What happened?"

The old nation, for that was what she was now, an old, ancient relic of the past, cracked open her eyes and gazed softly at her babies, dark orbs filled with some unkown emotion. She hissed in pain and dragged herself over to the large trunk of a nearby tree and leaned against it. Her face was haggard, and dark shadows lined her eyes and cheeks. She looked so tired.

"Mother...?"

The woman shakily extended her arms and forced a smile. "Come here, my children." She said weakly. "Let your mother hold you." The twins exchanged a fearful glance, worried that their combined weight might hurt her, but did as she said and buried their faces into their Mother's bony shoulder.

She smelled like flowers and blood.

The woman hummed softly and ran her thin fingers through their golden hair slowly, like she was savoring each touch. Above them, the stars danced sadly and the wind crooned sorrowfully in the treetops.

Mother began to sing.

It was the twins' favorite lullaby, the first they had heard on this earth. They hadn't heard it in so long that it filled them with a strange melancholy that brought tears to their eyes.

Amelia clung to her mother tightly, afraid to let go, while Matthew realized that this was the moment he had been dreading ever since they had left their village.

Mother's singing was interrupted by a fit of bloody coughing. Amelia peeked up and saw a dribble of blood run down her chin.

The nation squeezed her children closer to her with all the strength she had left, pressing soft kisses into their heads and choking back a wave of tears. She didn't want them to see her cry, not again.

"Halona, Elan, I need you to listen to me very carefully, can you do that?" Mother whispered, making both her children meet her gaze. Amelia whose name was Halona wiped her eyes and gripped her Mother's shoulder even tighter. Matthew whose name was Elan cried softly and nodded.

Mother smiled. "There is something very important that I must say to you, and I fear that I haven't very much time to do it, so pay attention. I am not long for this world, my children. Soon, I will have passed on to that place where our kind dwells after death, meaning that the two of you will become the land in my place. Do you understand?"

Amelia's breath hitched and more tears pooled in her eyes. She shook her head in disbelief.

"No, Mother, you can't," she choked out. "You can't. Please, Mother, you can't leave us." Amelia shut her eyes tightly and let the tears stream freely down her small face. She heard her Mother sigh above her, and when she looked up she was smiling, warmth in her eyes.

"Oh, Halona," she said softly, cupping the young nation's face in her hand. "Do not be sad. This is a fate that we will all face one day. I am not the first of our kind to die, and I will not be the last. You must be strong now. I am leaving you sooner than I would have liked, but I know that you two will be just fine." The twins, even Matthew, began to sob. "You have in you the light of our people, as well as that of your own people. Those who have come from across the sea are yours now, too. You must protect them, love them, no matter what they may do or where they may go. That is our duty as the land." Coughs followed by blood. "Can you do that...?"

Her children nodded through their sorrow and their mother felt a weight lift off her chest.

"Thank you... my children... thank you..."

She knew in her heart that they would survive, that they would fight and win against those who would seek to hurt them and their people.

In her mind, she could see it, her beautiful daughter and her handsome son, their strong forms silhouetted against the fading light as they rose to power. Halona would be tall and loud-mouthed, but also very sweet and caring. Elan would be quiet and observant, but a fierce protector of that which he loved.

She could see it now.

So clearly she didn't even feel it as her eyes drifted shut and her breath slowed.

The next thing she knew, she was gone, floating away like a leaf on a breeze.

And Native America watched as starlight illuminated the tears of her children as they wailed in the wilderness for their Mother to return, though they knew that she never would.

It was the dawn of a new age.

* * *

Three hundred years later and Amelia F. Jones lay with her friends and family on the lawn of her backyard, gazing upward into the bright night sky where constellations older than any nation glimmered and flashed like the bellies of silver fish gliding through dark water.

Everyone was quiet, the meeting that day having sapped the energy from all of them, and the nations of the world enjoyed a moment of peace and quiet simply enjoying/tolerating each other's company.

Amelia lay between Canada and Britain, her head pillowed on her brother's shoulder and his arm around her shoulders.

It was one of those rare moments where everything just slowed down, and the North American siblings were allowed to just be that, siblings. No wars, no urgent meetings or terrorist attacks, just Matthew and Amelia.

France wasn't even trying to grope anyone it was so calm.

"This reminds of the night Mother died." America suddenly said.

Everyone froze, the calm air dissipating like mist.

Never before had either one of the twins spoken openly about the nation who gave birth to them, let alone her death, and the statement put everyone, particularly Britain and Spain, on edge.

Canada nodded his head in agreement, not noticing the tense atmosphere. "You're right." He said. "There were stars that night too, weren't there?"

America smiled, though it was sad. "Yeah." She said softly. "There was no moon. And she faded away looking up at these same constellations. See the big bear?"

Canada laughed softly. "Yup. She always used to tell us the story of that one, didn't she. About the big mama bear looking for her cub, and how she was so happy when she found him that the spirits put them in the heavens so that would always be together."

"Always together... right."

America felt her eyes grow misty.

It had been so long since either one of them had spoken about their Mother, it was like she was stretching out a sad unused muscle in her chest. It felt both good and bad.

Around them, the nations listened attentively. It was as though the twins were in their own secluded world, speaking only to one another without paying any mind to who was listening.

Britain felt guilt like a hot iron in his chest.

America sighed. "Do you think... she's be proud of us?" She said quietly. "I mean... we tried to live our lives how she wanted, didn't we? Does that mean she'd proud of us, wherever she is?"

Canada was silent for a moment, giving America's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I hope she is." He said slowly. "I really do."

Their eyes once again turned towards the sky and the air became quiet.

On the other side of the lawn, Spain curled in on himself in self-loathing. It was one of his deepest regrets the way he'd been when he'd first arrived in the new world, killing, looting, stealing all for his "ultimate glory." Across the way, Britain felt the same.

Looking back, the slaughter of innocents was unbelievable. And until that night, it had been an unspoken truth that the twins' mother had been one of those innocents. Britain felt regret once again rise to the surface of his mind, so sharp and deep he was surprised it didn't kill him right there.

There were times in the past when he had wished that it would.

"Ne, America, what was your Mama like?" Italy suddenly asked, pushing himself up onto his elbow so he could look over at the twin nations. Germany and Romano instantly slapped him upside the head, reflecting the wish of every other nation gathered. "Ouch! Hey, what was that for ve?"

"For being an idiot!" Romano whispered harshly. "You don't just ASK someone something like that, idiota! Jesus, read the atmosphere for once!"

Italy pouted and tried not to cry. He was just curious. The North America twins never spoke about their lives before the Europeans, and he felt himself wanting to know more.

"She was strong." America suddenly said, startling everyone. They hadn't expected her to answer, and now that she had, they hung on her every word.

"Mother was a warrior. Over a thousand years old and stronger than any man in any tribe. She was tall, and really beautiful, and she had warm skin that smelled like flowers and rain." America swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "I remember she used to sing to us before she put us to sleep. Always the same lullaby. Her voice was gentle, and whenever we got scared she would grab us up and hold us until we weren't afraid anymore. She was kind like that."

Canada felt his eyes sting. He wanted his sister to stop, to push the hurt they'd been hiding back to its place deep in their minds. But at the same time he wanted her to keep going. He missed his mother and hearing about her eased that pain.

America cleared her throat and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "We were three years old when Mother made us leave the village we were born in. Like, human years, not nation years. I guess she didn't want us to see everyone die of the sickness that was going around. Not that we didn't, because we did." Britain cringed and he wanted to shrivel up right then and there. "We wandered around for awhile, and everything seemed to be okay. Mother made everything better, you know. She taught us about our lands, about our people, and how to be good personifications. But over time... she just got... bad."

America's voice broke and Italy regretted asking.

"We were in the mountains when she died. She was really sick, and I guess she felt like... she just couldn't go on anymore. We were on our own after that."

A cool wind swept over the gathered nations, causing everyone to shiver. Most of them had seen nations die. But none of them had expected America and Canada to be the same.

They were so young.

And it wasn't fair for children to watch their parents slip off into the endless dream.

"... I'm sorry." Britain whispered. He had turned his back on the twins, unable to bear looking them in the face as the one who had taken their mother away from them. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

America sniffed, but even though she rubbed her runny nose on Canada's jacket, he didn't mind.

The air was heavy, and Spain felt the urge to repeat Britain's apology with his own words, only to be held down by Romano who shook his head.

"I forgive you."

...

...

...

"... What did you say?"

America flipped on her side and gave Britain a soft smile.

"I said I forgive you, Daddy." She said, sliding across the grass until her forehead was pressed up against Britain's. "I forgive you. For everything."

Britain couldn't believe what he was hearing. Tears sprang into the old nation's eyes, and before he could stop himself he was outright sobbing. Behind him, France grasped his hand tightly in his.

He had waited over two hundred years to hear those words, and as he looked at the young nations he considered his children, he saw Canada nod his agreement over America's shoulder.

"Thank you." He choked out. "I'm sorry. Thank you. I'm so very sorry. Thank you, Amelia, Matthew. Thank you."

America's smile widened, and she turned her head towards the stars once more, joy and sorrow swirling around inside her like a vortex.

For the rest of the night, until the sun came up in the morning and painted the horizon pink, the nations lay there together, reminiscing about the dead, the gone, the nations who came before them that loved them and made them who they were today.

Britain wasn't the only one crying softly by the end of the long starry night.

**Chapter Next: Whose Idea Was It To Make Food Explosive!? **

**A/N: Woah. Heavy. Hey guys! Here's the next chapter for your reading pleasure. I hope you like it. I tried to make it a little more serious because I've been getting quite a few comments asking for a more serious chapter, so that's what I made. Please review telling me if you liked it, any story ideas you may have, and I'm also thinking of doing a little Question-Answer type thing in future chapters, so make sure to ask me some juicy Questions. Well, that's all I got. Until we meet again! - **


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